


I Happened Upon a Devil Today

by Bythoseburningembers



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, Episode: s01e07 A Rebellious Woman, Lies, Loyalty, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suffering, The truth will set them free, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2020-06-29 08:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19826713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bythoseburningembers/pseuds/Bythoseburningembers
Summary: Set after 1x07 A Rebellious Woman, Athos loses himself, and his brothers try to find him in the dark. It goes badly.Porthos exhaled a shuddering breath. “D’you know what that feels like, to love someone more’n your own life, but to know that you can’t save them from themselves? That they will never love you as much as they love oblivion?”D’Artagnan leaned heavily on the mop. “I do now,” he whispered.“All we can do is keep him alive,” Aramis continued. “And prepare ourselves for the next time that we are inadequate.”





	1. Chapter One

The sun had not yet risen on a new day when Athos was deployed.

The Comtesse had only been gone for a few hours when Treveille called Athos to his office. The Captain insisted that it was for his own good. The Cardinal de Richlieu was less than happy to have been deprived of the chance to see a “witch” burn at the stake. He was especially unhappy that his failure was due to a couple of Musketeers.

Still, Athos’s sudden departure had left them all shaken. Aramis and Porthos would never show it outwardly, of course. They had joked, teased and bickered as if nothing were happening the hours before Athos’s departure, toasting his good luck and skill. Then he left, and their apprehension leaked into the very air.

 _“I don’ like it,”_ he recalled hearing Porthos murmur to Aramis as Athos vanished from the Musketeer garrison, hat pulled low over his face. D’Artagnan had stood just slightly behind them, arms crossed as he leaned against the horse stables. Athos didn’t look back, his saddle bag fastened tight over the Royal correspondences he was delivering. A simple task, unbecoming of The King’s Elite Guard.

But it was for his own good, Treveille insisted.

 _“He shouldn’t be alone right now, an’ you know it,”_ Porthos continued.

 _“It makes me nervous too, Porthos,”_ Aramis had growled in response. His eyes, normally cheerful in the dawning light of morning, were dark as fettered storm clouds. _“But what are we to do? Paris isn’t any safer for him after the whole debacle with the King and The Comtesse Ninon. Besides, perhaps the ride will allow him some time to think.”_

Aramis had not sounded very confident, and D’Artagnan was less so. He had no clue why Ninon had been so special to Athos. The affairs of romance were Aramis’s forte, but the… Weight that had ascended on their brother after her trial and exile was obvious to them all. Athos shouldn’t have been alone, and they all fretted over his safety every second he was away.

The fourth day, Porthos’s patience ran dry. “He should have been back by now,” the big man rumbled when D’Artagnan joined them in the courtyard tables. He brought an apple. It was the fourth one he had had today, but the knots in his stomach prevented him from eating anything heavier. Aramis, having abandoned polishing his pistol, nodded.

“I have a bad feeling,” he agreed pensively. “Four days is too long for a simple messenger mission. Maybe he ran into trouble on the road.”

“Bandits,” D’Artagnan volunteered glumly. He realized he had said the wrong thing when Porthos inhaled a panicked breath and Aramis shot him an angry glance. “But what can we do about it?”

Porthos surged to his feet. “I’m goin to see the Captain,” he declared, already striding up the stairs. Aramis snatched his pistol and followed without a word. D’Artagnan exhaled a sigh of relief and stood, tossing the remainder of his apple to the side. Finally, they were _doing_ something.

Aramis rapped on Treveille’s door, but turned the knob before anyone could answer. “Captain…” Porthos began as the three of them stormed in. Treveille looked up from his desk and scowled.

Instead of reprimanding them, however, he just leaned back in his seat. “It’s Athos, isn’t it?”

“We have a real bad feelin,” Porthos affirmed. Aramis hooked his thumbs into the sash around his waist.

“We’d hoped to leave with your blessing,” he said. D’Artagnan looked between the three men, surprised. He knew that the Captain gave the Inseparables a lot of leeway that he would not have allowed from anyone else, but he had expected some resistance. Or at least a censure. The way that Aramis phrased his statement made it seem as if Treveille’s command meant little. They would seek out Athos anyway.

Which D’Artagnan had known, of course, but he had assumed they would at least use some tact when dealing with their superior. Treveille must have noticed his confusion, because one side of his mouth perked into a smile. “I’ve known these men many years, D’Artagnan,” he informed him. “And what’s more, I have been a soldier for even longer, Close comrades often develop a sixth sense about each other, and this insight is never to be ignored,” he glanced back down at the paperwork at his desk.

“There are some correspondences that need to be delivered to one of our Spanish informants,” he informed them crisply. “I have them here. Deliver them to the border. If you happen upon Athos from here to there,” a half shrug. “Bring him home.”

Porthos nabbed the papers with a grunt of acknowledgement and a quick nod of thanks. Aramis tipped his hat to the Captain and followed, his strides wide and purposeful.

“D’Artagnan,” he, however, hesitated in the doorway, every muscle aching to join his friends. “Whatever you may see, whatever happens, remember this: Athos is a good man. One of the best I’ve ever met. He does not deserve anything less than the respect of his peers,” Treveille lowered his voice. “Or the loyalty of his brothers,” D’Artagnan’s stomach clenched, but he met the Captain’s serious gaze with a solemn one of his own.

“Of course, Captain.”

Treveille nodded. “Dismissed,” no sooner had the words left his mouth that D’Artagnan closed the door and sprinted to catch up with Aramis and Porthos. He found the former at the bottom of the stairs, stuffing a knapsack with bandages. He glanced up when D’Artagnan neared him, mouth set into a firm line.

“Good,” Aramis quipped. He laid a hand on D’Artagnan’s shoulder. “We ride in five minutes. Go to Athos’s room and nab me some of his vintage wine, would you?”

“What for?”

“We don’t know what state we’ll find him in,” Aramis explained, his expression darkening. “He may be injured; in which case the alcohol may come in handy. Or he may be… not himself. In which case it will also be useful. Do as I say.” D’Artagnan didn’t like what Aramis was insinuating, but he nodded and obeyed. He stopped to grab one of Athos’s spare cloaks and another water skin.

As he was leaving Athos’s rooms, he nearly crashed into a warm body in the hall. “Serge!” he gasped, narrowly avoiding a collision. Serge caught the water skin he’d dropped without blinking, his reflexes as honed as Athos, despite his age. The older man gave him a nod, pressed something warm and cloth-covered warm into his hands. D’Artagnan caught a whiff of freshly baked bread and relaxed.

“It’s for Athos,” Serge told him with a shrug. D’Artagnan grinned. “Tell Aramis it has Bloodroot in it.”

D’Artagnan nearly dropped the bread. Was _everyone_ determined to shock him today? “Bloodroot? That’s rare. And dangerous. How did you…?”

“Please, lad,” Serge interrupted, pressing his fingers tighter around the morsel of hot bread. “Don’t ask no more questions. Just take it to Aramis and tell ‘im what I’ve said. And take care of those boys of ours, huh?”

“I’ll do my best.” _If I can ever figure out what the hell is going on._

D’Artagnan stepped around Serge and hurried back to the courtyard. His and Aramis’s horses stood, trotting in place eagerly. They hadn’t been out in days. D’Artagnan patted his mare on her flank, grateful for the beasts steadying warmth. Porthos was saddling his own mount; and glanced up when he arrived. “Wha’s that?” He asked, gesturing to the bread.

“Wine, a water sack, Athos’s extra cloak and… Bread. Serge made it,” Porthos’s mouth curved at the ends, though the worry and anxiety in his eyes made it look sadder than usual.

“Good thinking, pup.”

“Porthos,” D’Artagnan said slowly, as he handed Porthos the items for him to secure onto his horse. “Serge said the bread has bloodroot in it,” Porthos’s hands hesitated a moment, shook in place, before he quickly stuffed the bread into the knapsack by his side.

“Alrigh’ then,” the older man breathed.

“Porthos… Just what does Serge, does _any of you,_ think is going to happen when we find Athos? Just so I can be clear on what’s happening,” he asked. Porthos turned to stare at him for a long moment. His eyes searched D’Artagnan’s face in a way that made him want to simultaneously squirm and raise his chin. He settled for the latter. Porthos gave a single nod and exhaled noisily.

“Listen, D’Artagnan, you’ve earned our trust so far,” he began slowly. “For good reason, aye? You’ve proven that you’ve a thick head, a brave heart and a strong character. But sometimes those things can get in the way of seein clearly,” He turned back to his horse, fastened the saddle with more force than necessary. The horse whinnied a complaint.

“I don’t know what we’ll find, but I have a feelin. It won’t be the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last. This, for me, is your final test ‘afore I can call you brother. Now get on your horse,” Porthos did not meet his eyes as Aramis returned and tossed a spare blanket on top of his things.

Porthos handed him the bread wordlessly. Aramis gave it a sniff, glanced at D’Artagnan curiously, then stashed it away with a nod. “We’ll start our search in the East,” he said. “That’s the way Athos was headed originally. On the way there, we’ll stop at every tavern we can find.”

“Why?”

“Just ride, D’Artagnan,” Aramis interrupted. Now he wouldn’t look at him either. “You’ll understand when we get there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those curious souls, the great Google informed me that blood-root induces vomiting. It will become clearer later on. The reason it would have been rare in Paris at the time (or nonexistent, the great Google could not give me insight) is that it grows primarily in North America.


	2. Devils hiding in the corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their reunion with Athos is less than ideal. D'Artagnan isn't helpful at all, but then again, he never could have imagined this.

It took nearly five days.

Five whole days in which Porthos tracked Athos’s horse through the muddy fern-hills and waterlogged pastures of France. Aramis used his considerable charm in each tavern they came across, a delighted smile and personable nature disarming all into readily detailing how they had seen a man, raggedy type, drinking his soul away in here, yes…

It was almost as if they had done this before.

They rode hard. In the moments when they did take time to rest, D’Artagnan saw the shadows beneath his friend’s eyes grow larger. By the third day, even Aramis had ceased his endless chatter and good-natured teasing. They rode in silence, except for the moments when Porthos and Aramis huddled close together over the fire, heads tilted as they discussed Athos in near whispers. D’Artagnan always pretended to be asleep, but he heard the terror in their voices.

_“What if we’re too late this time?”_

_“I refuse to believe that.”_

_“I feared this might happen again one day, but I honestly didn’t think Ninon would have this kind of effect.”_

_“Wasn’t your fault, Mis… I didn’t see it comin neither. We just gotta remember our oath, same as we always done, aye?”_

_What oath?_ He wanted to sit up and demand. _All for one?_ Somehow, this one sounded different. More personal. It sounded as if they had harbored these fears before. When they finally did find Athos on the fifth day, he was huddled, shaking, in the corner of a destroyed tavern.

“He’s a menace!” The tavern owner nearly shrieked as they entered from the pouring rain. D’Artagnan looked around, and inhaled a sharp breath. The tavern was small, barely more than a single room with chairs and four tables. Not even a bar. However, it had all been destroyed by now.

The place was empty, but the tables had been tossed to the side with visible force. The chairs, those that hadn’t been smashed to bits, lay toppled and helpless on their sides. Scraps of torn tablecloth lay on the ground like fallen soldiers. Candle sticks were shattered on the floor, and there was enough broken glass and cracked wine bottles to create a window mosaic in Notre Dame.

It looked as though a monster had attacked.

Yet on the ground in the farthest corner, face obscured by his soaking hair and dressed only in a thin undershirt and his soiled pants, was Athos. He sat hunched in on himself, arms wrapped around his knees and eyes wide open as he stared at the ground. He was making the soft keening noise of a wounded animal. D’Artagnan’s heart stopped.

“What did you do to him?!” He yelled, spinning on a heel, one hand on his sword. The tavern owner scrambled backwards.

“ _Me!?”_ He screeched. “Your friend is the devil here! He came in, and after a few drinks that he _didn’t pay for,_ started wrecking the place! Screaming and swinging his sword like a madman! He nearly killed me! He drove away all my customers!”

“Athos wouldn’t just _do_ that! You must have done something to him!”

“Oh, I’ll do something to him alright…!”

“Shut up, both of you!” Porthos suddenly ordered, in a voice that demanded immediate obedience. D’Artagnan’s mouth snapped shut, and he twirled around to see the two men approaching Athos like one would a scared bear. Low to the ground, hands held out in a sign of peace, eyes not straying from his still form.

“Athos,” Aramis called softly, from where he approached on the right. “Athos, can you hear me?” A muffled moan. “It’s Aramis. We’re here to take you home.”

“Not without payin!” D’Artagnan reached out and yanked the despicable worm into his grasp, pressed his dagger to a fat throat.

“ _Listen to me_ , you simpering maggot….!”

“D’Artagnan!” Porthos hissed. “Let him go!” He obeyed with reluctance. The tavern owner straightened his shirt with a harrumph and stormed out of the door. “Athos, are you with us?” D’Artagnan turned back around, feeling helpless as Porthos drew nearer. “We’re not gonna hurt you, alrigh? We just want to help. Now, can you say if you’re hurt?”

“G-g-er way.” The monster whimpered.

“What?!” D’Artagnan asked aloud. Aramis and Porthos both came to a sudden halt, sending harsh glances over his shoulder. But the damage was done. Athos heard him and raised his head.

His eyes, bloodshot and underlined with purple bags, were somehow…. Crazed. Inhuman. Monstrous. “NO!” He suddenly roared, catapulting to his feet with a quickness that took D’Artagnan’s breath away. His sword flashed to life and when had he even _gotten_ that?

“Damn it, D’Artagnan!” Porthos cried, as he and Aramis quickly rolled clear of Athos's blade.

“You’ll not take me back, cursed pig! You damned devils!” Athos yelled, slashing at them. D’Artagnan leapt to the side to avoid being skewered, drawing his own blade.

“What? Athos, what are you doing?”

“D’Artagnan, look out!” He _dove_ from near death, slipped with a curse in the shards of glass, slick still with wine. 

“I’LL KILL THE WHOLE LOT OF YOU!” Athos bellowed. He stumbled backward, and only now did D’Artagnan realize that the smell of stale drink, urine and sweat was coming from Athos. The normally immaculate, rational, calm man stared at them, panting heavily.

He kicked over a chair nearest to him. It flung against the wall and splintered to the ground with a crash. “What do we do?!” D’Artagnan gasped, blocking Athos’s jab to his waist. But even… Possessed? Drunk? Insane? As Athos was, his fighting skills were still the most superb that D’Artagnan had ever seen. His sword swirled and arched through the air with the accuracy and deadliness of a viper.

Aramis and Porthos drew their own blades, faces pinched. “Wrestle him down!” Aramis ordered.

He spluttered. _Them_ , take down _Athos_ like a common criminal? His stomach roiled at the very thought. He suddenly wished he were back at the Garrison, or, better yet, that he had never stepped foot inside the Garrison at all. “What if we hurt him?”

“Better that than leave him like this! Athos, Athos, stop this madness!”

“I won’t let you take me!” Athos snarled. “Ghosts! Devils from Hell! Let me be!”

“Athos, whatever you see isn’t real! Snap outta it, now!”

“I WILL BE RID OF YOU!” Athos suddenly yanked free his pistol. His arm swung wildly as he aimed it at them. D’Artagnan’s breath caught in his throat.

“Athos! Put it down!” He tried to shout, but terror made his throat close so that it only came out in a hoarse whisper. “We’re your friends! This isn’t you!”

“I see you for what you are! Liars! Thieves! Betrayers!”

“Then you don’t see us,” Porthos argued, dancing in a light circle to avoid Athos’s blade. He met it in a clang, pushed back. Athos swiveled and jabbed at his knee. Porthos swiveled to the side quickly. Not quickly enough to avoid the bullet, however. D’Artagnan gasped as Athos fired, instinctively diving to the ground.

He wasn’t the one in danger, though. Porthos cried out as he stumbled to the floor.

D’Artagnan scrambled to his hands and knees, crawling over. “Porthos!”

“I’m fine!” Porthos shouted back. Aramis lunged forward, engaged Athos in a brutal spar as D’Artagnan knelt over his friend. “Bullet just scraped me is all,” he could see a thin line of red weeping from his upper arm.

“Yeah, this time,” D’Artagnan mumbled, as rage overtook him. How could Athos _do_ this? How could he not recognize them? It felt like the worst betrayal. What if he killed them, here and now?

Suddenly, Porthos rocketed to his feet. “Athos!” He snapped. D’Artagnan looked up, and his heart stopped. Aramis had somehow managed to disarm Athos. His sword lay a few feet away, the hilt bloodied. Athos cradled his sliced left palm to his chest, and with in the right held the pistol in a steady grip. The barrel was pointed directly at Aramis. Aramis, likewise, had drawn his own firearm. It was a stalemate, the two brothers holding each other’s lives in their hands.

Aramis looked as if someone were slowly pulling his heart from his chest. Athos hunched over, air rattling in his lungs, drool dripping from his mouth. He looked as if he might collapse any moment. D’Artagnan prayed that moment was upon them.

“Athos,” Aramis breathed. “We aren’t here to do you harm. We’re here to help. Now, stand down.”

“I’ll kill you all,” Athos replied acidly. “I know why you’re here. What you want from me. You want to torture me some more! Well, I can’t take anymore!” He yelled, and he sounded as if he had been gurgling glass. Aramis inhaled a shuddering breath. His thumb reached up, slowly unlocked the safety.

At the soft click, Athos tilted his head. A slow smile spread across his face, so disturbed and ironic and wrong that it made him shudder. “Shoot me then, Aramis,” Athos dared him, quietly. “You’d be doing me a mercy. I’ll finally be rid of _her_.” Aramis shook his head slowly.

“You don’t mean that,” he gulped. “I know you don’t. Athos, please, don’t make me do this,” his voice cracked. “ _Please_ don’t make me do this. I can’t lose another friend to his own self-hatred.”

“Shoot me, you coward!” Athos insisted.

“I can’t!” Aramis cried. “I won’t!”

Athos’s face turned. “Porthos?”

Porthos just shook his head wordlessly. Now that D’Artagnan could see, he noticed the tears streaming down his face, dripping slow and steady into his beard. Athos stared at them, uncomprehending. Then he tipped his head back as if to catch rain in his mouth.

“Very well,” Athos fairly sobbed. He started to raise the pistol, pointed up, beneath his own chin. “I’ll do it myself.”

“ATHOS, NO!” The cry came from all three of them. D’Artagnan’s heart jumped in his throat. Porthos lunged forward. The crack of a pistol going off echoed throughout the room.

Athos finally collapsed, the gun still smoking in his hand. D’Artagnan fell beside him, a sob catching in his throat. He mouthed Athos’s name, desperate fingers scrabbling at his neck. He pressed a finger there, and just faintly detected a rapid pulse. He _fell_ onto his haunches, gasping for breath.

“Athos!” that was Aramis. He flung his smoking pistol to the ground with an irreverence D’Artagnan had never seen and flung himself to his knees. “Athos, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me,” he cried, tears in his eyes. D’Artagnan looked down; and noticed deep maroon blossoming on Athos’s left side.

“Your shot was true as always, ‘Mis,” Porthos assured him, exhaling heavily as he leaned on Aramis’s shoulder. “Flesh wound. Enough to keep ‘im out of trouble for a while.”

Aramis leaned over to press a trembling hand against Athos’s face. “I-I shot him,” he gulped.

“You saved him, Aramis,” D’Artagnan argued. “When he didn’t deserve it in the least, you saved him.” 


	3. Monsters in the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos gives D'Artagnan an impossible choice, Athos has to take his medicine, and two brothers blame themselves for the misery of their leader.

“It isn’t over yet.”

D’Artagnan stilled, fingers stilling around the reins of his and Aramis’s mounts. “What do you mean, it isn’t over?” He demanded, voice raised a few octaves in panic. “He’s out cold!” There was something hard and weary and pained in Porthos’s eyes. He reached up, instinctively, to touch his bandaged arm. D’Artagnan swatted his hand away.

“We’ve gotta get the drink outta him, and whatever else ‘e’s put into his system,” Porthos explained. He nodded to the closed door of the inn they had finally escaped too. Being of little money, the Musketeers had bundled Athos, hog-tied and gagged, into blankets and tried to repair the mess he’d made well as they could.

Aramis insisted that Treveille would send the poor tavern owner recompense for his destroyed property. They then had ridden closer to Paris to a crowded and boisterous inn. The tiny room they had managed to rent smelled of liquor and sweat, but the bed was soft and the wine abundant.

“Won’t be easy, though. Withdrawal might kick in, and then he’ll be a right devil again.”

“About that,” D’Artagnan agreed, trying to keep the accusation from his tone. “What the hell just happened back there?”

Porthos sighed, leaned his forehead tiredly against his horse’s flank. “Athos travels with demons, you noticed?” D’Artagnan nodded, mind flashing back to a home set aflame, and Athos’s agonized voice tearing through the night. It was impossible to look at Athos and now catch a glimpse of his inner battle.

“It’s why he’s always in the drinks, but he’s never, not even totteringly drunk, been like… Like that!”

“ _That_ is what comes of a man who’s reached the edge of his limits,” Porthos informed him, matter of fact. “Athos is the strongest person I’ve ever met, huh? But when he breaks, and he does, same as any man, he loses any and all sense. Tries to run. Buries himself in wine and fighting. When we find him… He’s like this.”

“You mean, _this_ has happened before?” Porthos’s silence was answer enough. “And everyone knows about it,” D’Artagnan realized, horrified. “That’s what Treveille and Serge were trying to tell me before we left. To be ready. Has he done this _at_ the Garrison?”

“What, you think ‘Mis and I would let him make a fool of himself in front of the others? Nah. We usually spot the signs. Take him away afore he can get too deep. This time, though, we didn’t see it coming… Not until he had already been sent off. And Treveille and Serge don’t know everythin, understand? Nor will they ever,” Porthos turned to spear him with a serious look.

“Of course, but…”

“Sometimes, Aramis and I come back bruised a little, see? Athos never remembers what happened when he snaps to his senses. Treveille and the others guess that he got a little violent, but they’d never imagine what you just saw.”

“For good reason! The man I saw in there was… Was…”

“A man in pain,” Porthos finished curtly.

“ _A monster,”_ D’Artagnan spat. “He tried to bait Aramis into killing him.”

“Yeah, he does that.”

“And you two never tell him?! Does he have _any_ idea what he’s done by morning?”

“None,” Porthos sighed. He raised his head. “He supposes that we get into fights tryin to keep him outta trouble, that’s it. Nothin more to it,” Porthos turned fully now, his face dimly illuminated by the bright lights of the inn.

“And the ruined tavern? Treveille just pays for that without knowing the full story!?”

“Ain’t as if we don’t come upon a little trouble every once in a while, anyway. Aramis and I take turns takin responsibility for it. Think it’s my turn now. I’ll come up with somethin… D’Artagnan, I told ya that _this night_ , for me, is where we truly see your mettle. No one must ever know what really happened tonight, got it? Especially Athos.”

_Like Hell._ “Porthos, that’s insane! He must know just what he put us through. Just what his actions have caused!” He hissed, waving a hand up, to the room where they had been forced to tie Athos to the bedframe and where Aramis stitched his wound, quiet as a tomb. “What he’s doing to you and Aramis! To himself!”

“It would only make him feel bad for no reason…”

“No reason!? He tried to kill himself!”

“And this is how we protect him!” Porthos shouted. D’Artagnan jumped, startled by the sudden vehemence. “Aramis and I swore to each other, to him when he wasna lookin, that we’d keep him from the grave long as we could. Maybe one day we’ll be strong enough to save him completely, but for now, this is what we do. Either you’re on board or you’re not, but hear me now, D’Artagnan Du Lupiac,” Porthos stepped closer, lowered his voice. “If a single soul even hears a _whisper_ of this, if you so much as breath the word _monster_ into Athos’s ear, I will never speak to you again, y’hear me? Me, Aramis, Athos, we will treat you like a stranger for the rest of our days. This is the price of our friendship. It’s hard, but we do it, cause we’re brothers.”

“Porthos,” D’Artagnan whispered, gutted. “This… It isn’t friendship, or loyalty. It’s madness. Please,” he reached out, hands shaking. “Please. Athos is _hurting_ you. He’d want to know. Maybe the truth can help him change,” he insisted. Porthos shook his head tiredly.

“Or it’ll send him spiralin into more guilt. Then we’d lose him forever. That a chance you’re willin to take?”

“But…”

“Your choice, D’Artagnan,” Porthos interrupted, stepping around him. “I’ve spoken my piece on it. No more to say. Stay or go, it’s up to you now,” and without another backward glance, Porthos journeyed back into the inn and closed the door quietly behind him.

D’Artagnan inhaled a shuddering breath. He’d had no other family when coming to Paris. He’d had no other reason to live other to see his father avenged, and meeting Athos, Aramis and Porthos had been a godsend. A blessing. It had saved him. He looked up at the stars through blurred eyes.

“Now I must save them.”

* * *

_Now I understand why we chose the loudest, most boisterous inn between Spain and Paris,_ D’Artagnan thought when he slumped back into the tiny room. Aramis and Portos knelt on other side of the low bed, hands scrabbling at Athos’s flailing limbs.

He screamed bloody murder the entire time.

“Don’t just stand there, then! _Help us_!” Aramis shouted, when he noticed D’Artagnan in the doorway. He sighed and hurried inside.

“What needs to happen?” He asked, somehow managing an eerie calm in the face of his mentor’s breakdown.

“We can’t knock him out by force,” Aramis explained quickly. He narrowly avoided being butted in the head, throwing his entire weight forward to keep Athos down. “Athos, you’ll tear those stitches! Stay down!”

“Get off me!” Athos wailed. “Get off me, get off me, _get off me!”_

“A head injury in his state could very well kill him. Besides, we’ve gotta get some of Serge’s bread into him. It will make him throw up, clean out his system. Then we wait for the withdrawal to pass.” A thousand questions ran through his head _. How long until his withdrawal passes? What if he won’t eat the bread? How many times have you done this?_

Instead of asking, D’Artagnan extended a hand. “Give me the bread. Hold him down.”

“Careful. He’s liable to bite your fingers off,” Porthos warned, with a dour smile.

“It would hurt less than watching this,” D’Artagnan replied. Porthos’s smile dropped. He went back to securing Athos’s hands above his head. D’Artagnan carefully crept forward, and in one fluid movement, pried Athos’s lips apart and pinched his nose shut.

“Agh!” Athos gasped, bucking. D’Artagnan shoved the bread into his mouth quickly, heart aching, and leaned forward to then cover his nose and mouth before he could spit it back out. Athos wriggled and shouted past his hands, and if D’Artagnan let himself think for more than four seconds about it, he was sure he’d vomit himself. He was essentially _smothering_ one of his best friends.

His eyes stung with tears. “C’mon Athos, just swallow,” Aramis mumbled.

“It’s goin down now. I see his gullet working.”

“Good. Wait a moment… Wait a moment… D’Artagnan, move!” He jumped backwards, along with Aramis and Porthos, just as Athos surged upright. A spew of red-colored liquid splashed onto the ground, alongside random bits of bread and half-digested meat. Athos continued to retch, convulsing violently as his stomach purged itself.

“My favorite part of the night, this is,” Porthos groaned, nose wrinkling in disgust as he flicked his hands. Strings of vomit splattered across the room. “Aramis, go get the bucket, aye? And all your medicinal things. D’Art and I will start cleaning this mess.”

“Godspeed,” Aramis tossed over his shoulder. He raced from the room like he was being chased by hounds of hell.

“Never seen him this quiet before,” D’Artagnan observed, covering his nose as the smell started to rise. Athos was half-sprawled on the bed, as limp as his bindings would allow him as he gasped for breath. The air was broken by his dry heaves.

Porthos shrugged and vanished down the hall. When he returned, it was with a handful of rags, some alcohol and a mop. D’Artagnan didn’t ask where he had found the items. He didn’t want to know. “It’s hard on Aramis, especially. He’s the one who tends our ills, y’know? But some things can’t be healed. This is one,” Porthos continued, with a vague gesture to their idiot leader.

“And you?” D’Artagnan asked softly. He accepted the mop, watched Porthos somberly pour alcohol and water onto the floor. Watched it mix with the stale liquor and bloody food. “It isn’t hard on you?”

A snort. “The only thing that was ever harder was watching my mother die,” Porthos sighed and gestured to the floor. “Let’s clean this shit, huh?”

_I’d really rather not,_ D’Artagnan thought. He had seen every manner of excrement and dirt during his childhood, but this was something else. He tried to breathe through his mouth. “Were you ever angry?”

“Used ta be. I’d shake him and shake him, screamin in his face when he was like this. Demand to know why he wasn’t better than this. Doesn’t do a thing. He don’t remember nothin in the morning.”

“Have you ever considered… Not coming?”

Porthos halted. He opened his mouth several times, then closed it. His eyes strayed to the still figure on the bed, his dry heaves having transformed into soft tears. Athos stared over the side of the bed out of the dirt-encrusted window, his soiled clothes and disheveled hair making him look as if he had just been through a battle. Maybe he had. Maybe he was.

“We did just that, once,” D’Artagnan turned just as Aramis returned, carrying a metal bucket of warm water and rags. He went to Athos’s bed as if pulled on a string. “Porthos and I, furious with him and exhausted by even the thought of doing this again, let him go. We let him stumble into the night and drink himself into a state. You see that scar?” Aramis pointed to a thin line, starting just under Athos’s jaw and keening over his neck to the other earlobe. It was thin as twine, barely noticeable.

“ _That’s_ what happened. In the morning, Constance summoned us. She thought he’d been attacked. He was lying in the dirt, throat slit. It may be that he got into a fight and lost. Maybe he slit his throat himself. We’ll never know. But the thought of losing him scares us more than the thought of doing this, every night, for as long as he needs,” Aramis wrung out a warm rag, set it atop Athos’s forehead. The other man groaned, eyes rolling back into his head.

“I know you believe us fools, D’Artagnan,” he continued softly. “But Athos is a good man, and an answer to our prayers. He’s saved Porthos and I in ways we can’t even begin to repay. We try our best to be good brothers to him, but we know that we will never be enough,” A tear dribbled down Aramis’s face. He swiped it away impatiently.

Porthos exhaled a shuddering breath. “D’you know what that _feels_ like, to love someone more’n your own life, but to know that you can’t save them from themselves? That they will never love you as much as they love oblivion?”

D’Artagnan leaned heavily on the mop, felt his knees go weak with heartbreak. “I do now,” he whispered.

“All we can do is keep him alive,” Aramis continued. “And prepare ourselves for the next time we are inadequate.”

“Surely you don’t blame yourselves for this?”

“If we were half the brothers he deserves, he wouldn’t do this,” Porthos argued. “We could stop him. We could _save_ him.”

D’Artagnan clenched his jaw. _Damn you, Athos!_ “He does this to himself!” He snarled.

“He does this because we have never loved him the way he needs. We don’t know _how_ , God forgive us,” Aramis grabbed his rosary, kissed the Lord’s Cross with fervor. “We only know how to… keep him alive. Even that seems cruel when he’s like this, but we cannot lose him.”

“I want to kill him,” D’Artagnan announced.

“Yes,” Aramis smiled over his shoulder. “We felt like that once too.”

“He’s wakin up, I think,” Porthos interrupted tiredly. He pointed and indeed Athos was beginning to stir. He raised his head, squinted at them with glazed eyes.

“A drink?” He slurred hopefully.

“Only water,” Aramis informed him, leaning forward to tip a cup into his mouth.

“No!” Athos screamed, jerking away. He tried to fling himself out of bed, but the ropes tying him there yanked back. Athos bellowed out his frustration, tugging at the ropes to no avail. They were double knotted, expertly done. “I need a drink! A _real_ one!”

“ _No,_ Athos,” Aramis sighed. “It’ll kill you… Argh!” Aramis suddenly recoiled as Athos spat in his face, the mark landing just below his left eye.

“Then let me die, damn you!” He shouted. “What kind of man are you? You kill people every day, but you can’t pull the trigger just once? Just _this once_?”

D’Artagnan offered Aramis his handkerchief, glaring at Athos venomously. Aramis took it with a nod of thanks and bowed his head. “Our father who art in heaven,” he begged.

“Please!” Athos cried, arching desperately. He let out a rough sob, struggling. “Just one, please! Don’t leave me with these voices!”

“Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven.”

“You should go,” Porthos told D’Artagnan quietly. He swiveled.

“What? And leave you alone with him?”

“The correspondences for Treveille still need to be delivered,” Porthos pointed out. He jerked his thumb to the bed. “Besides, not much he can do now, can he? Don’t worry about us, pup, we’ve handled this before.”

“I _hate_ you!” Athos cried. He lifted his head, wide and tear-filled eyes desperate. “I hope you all rot in hell! You oath-breaking devils! I just wanted a drink, a little…”

“Give us our daily bread; and bring honor to our dead. Lead us not into temptation, but away from the devil, and forgive us our sins,” Aramis’s voice cracked. “As we forgive our sinners. Amen.”

“AHHH!” Suddenly D’Artagnan could hardly breathe, much less argue. He nodded, and, clapping Porthos on the shoulder, ran from the room. Behind him, Aramis started up a litany of quiet prayers again. Porthos continued to scrub the floors clean of his brother’s sins.

D’Artagnan fled into the night, wondering bitterly how it was that the worst monster he had ever seen existed in the light.


	4. Questions of Worthiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos wakes to a horrifying revelation. Aramis and Porthos must face the reality of their lies. D'Artagnan realizes that he has entered into a triad of complete morons.

D’Artagnan returned when the morning sun had just appeared over the horizon.

It peeked out from behind gray clouds, as if still hiding from the night’s… Activities. D’Artagnan couldn’t blame it. As he had ridden toward the border, all of nature had seemed at a standstill.

The birds had been sluggish to rise, their chirps lackluster. Even the grasshoppers stayed in their holes, eyeing him from the darkness with solemn eyes. It was as if every creature already knew what he had chosen to do. He had tried to sleep under the stars, breathing deeply the cool air of France, but his sleep had been interrupted by nightmares. His father, limp and heavy in his arms. Then Athos, screaming and straining against his bonds. Aramis’s agonized expression as he leveled a pistol at his own brother. Porthos’s blood as it stained the floors of a wrecked tavern.

Funny, how all his nightmares were of the waking world.

D’Artagnan tied away his horse and trudged up the stairs to their room quietly. The inn, positively booming with noise a few hours earlier, was now quieter than the grasshoppers. Its inhabitants were strewn about the room like puppets with their strings cut, snoring in drunken dazes.

D’Artagnan stepped over them with thinly disguised disgust. In Gascony, he had met drunkards. Men who sought their salvation at the end of a bottle or pipe. But _this_ … This was beyond drunkenness. Beyond mere human weakness, it was a fragile, trembling despair that was eating alive these people. His brother included. D’Artagnan could stomach a lot of things.

This was not one of them.

He pressed the door open lightly, gulping. “Hello?” He whispered. The door swung open, and he exhaled a breath of relief. On either side of the bed, Porthos and Aramis sat hunched against the wall.

Porthos’s chin rested on his chest, eyes closed and the steady rise and fall of his chest signaled that he was deep asleep. There were fresh bruises on his face, and the bandage around his arm had begun bleeding again. Aramis, on the other side, had one of Athos’s hands in his own, fingers pinched next to his pulse. In his lap was his small, hand-held bible, eyes drooping as he read the words.

Athos, the bastard, lay sprawled across the bed on his back, snoring lightly. His bonds had been cut; and lay useless on the floor. He had been dressed in new clothes, his body scrubbed of vomit and alcohol. He looked more innocent this way. By first glance, D’Artagnan saw no resemblance of a man who had nearly destroyed his friend’s souls a few hours earlier. He could have been a babe, fast asleep in his mother’s arms.

The _bastard._

Aramis startled when the door creaked open, blinking owlishly in the light. “Ah,” he breathed as D’Artagnan knelt before him. There was a series of long, thin cuts above Aramis’s right eyebrow. Claw marks. D’Artagnan gently took his chin between his fingers, turned his head to inspect the damage. For once, Aramis complied.

“The correspondences?” Aramis asked. He sounded as if he had been screaming too. His cheeks were still wet. D’Artagnan swiped away the remnants of tear tracks with his thumbs, tenderly.

“Delivered,” he reported. “No problems there. Have you slept, at all?”

Aramis smiled. “No,” he admitted. “Athos just fell asleep not two hours ago, his madness broken. Porthos followed soon after. I’ve been here, praying to God.”

“You should rest and clean up.”

“We used all the water we could afford on Athos.” Of course they had. D’Artagnan just shook his head.

“There’s a freshwater stream about two miles from here. You should take Porthos to clean the filth off him and water your horses,” for Porthos’s clothes were still stained with remaining vomit and blood. As was Aramis.

Aramis pursed his lips, eyes darting to the sleeping figure on the bed. “I don’t…”

“Relax,” D’Artagnan squeezed his shoulder. “I’m here now. I’ll look after Athos. He should sleep for the next couple of hours, right?” A hesitant nod. “Good. You and Porthos have been through Hell tonight. Go take care of yourselves now,” Aramis studied his face for a moment, anxiety palpable in the air, before he nodded.

“Very well,” he acquiesced. He released Athos’s hand, gently easing it onto the bed. “We won’t be gone long. As soon as Athos wakes, we should get back on the road.” D’Artagnan helped him stand, noticed that Aramis favored his left leg.

“What happened?”

“Athos stabbed me.” If not for the calm fashion in which it was said, D’Artagnan might have supposed Aramis were panicking. After tonight, he could only massage his temples. “It wasn’t his fault,” Aramis assured him. “He got his hands on one of the wine bottles. I shot it before he could try and drink any, and he stabbed me with the broken glass.”

“I don’t see how that isn’t his fault.”

“He wasn’t in his right mind, D’Artagnan. Besides, it’s a shallow wound. It’ll heal in a week or so.”

“Yeah? And what if next time he stabs you in the neck? How long do you suppose _that’ll_ take to heal?”

Aramis only chuckled and patted his shoulder as he passed, limping, over to Porthos. “Porthos. Porthos, you lump, wake up,” said person groaned, eyes fluttering open. His gaze fastened on Aramis. He arched a brow. “C’mon. D’Artagnan has volunteered to watch Athos while we get cleaned up,” Porthos craned his head over to blink at him. D’Artagnan waved.

“Good morning sleeping beauty.”

“Shove off,” Porthos replied, without much bite. He accepted Aramis’s hand up, scrubbing at his eyes. “You sure you can handle him, D’Art?”

“A sleeping man? I’m pretty confident in my abilities.”

“Yeah, yeah, no need to get snippy wit me,” Porthos grumbled. “You had breakfast? We can bring some back.”

Even half dead on his feet, Porthos was still considering his needs. _I’m going to miss this._ D’Artagnan forced a smile. “I picked an apple on my way here. There’s a tree not far. Help yourselves also.”

“We will,” Aramis assured him as he gently bullied a still sleepy Porthos out the door. “If he wakes up, get him to drink some water. And remember, not a word of tonight’s… activities, agreed?” D’Artagnan swallowed the lump in his throat and dipped his head.

“I promise.”

Aramis’s answering smile was brighter than it had been since Athos had left them. “Thank you for understanding, D’Artagnan. We’ll be back soon.”

“I know.” _Goodbye my friends._

D’Artagnan waited until the door was closed behind them, and he heard the thumping of their feet fade away. Then he turned to the bed. He clenched his jaw, every iota of his fury heating his face. “Alright, Athos,” he growled. “They may have had mercy on you, but not me. Not now. You saved _me,_ despite the pain it caused,” he crossed his arms. “Now I’m going to save you.”

* * *

_“I’ve spoken my piece on it. No more to say. Stay or go, it’s up to you now.”_

It was up to him. “I’m sorry, Athos,” he murmured, when the man moaned, one hand weakly pressed to the wound on his side. D’Artagnan lowered him to the ground, careful to support his head. The early morning sun cast reddish shadows on the ground of the destroyed tavern. The many destroyed tables and chairs looked like a burnt forest. The glass twinkled with drops of blood.

He knelt by his brother’s side, laid a hand on his shoulder. “Athos. Athos wake up,” he called softly. It was time. “Athos. Can you hear me?”

“Ow,” came the groggy response. Athos’s eyes fluttered open; the opaque blue nearly silver in the dawning light. He blinked, pupils dilating as he adjusted to the dimness of the room and D’Artagnan’s face. “Ow… D’Artagnan? In the name of…” Athos hissed as the pain from his wound flared up.

D’Artagnan reached into his back pocket. “Here,” he said, offering the small vial. “It’s for the pain.” Athos downed the drink automatically, sighing with relief when it was finished.

“Terrible stuff,” he smacked. He reached out, and D’Artagnan’s fingers closed about his as he helped him slowly sit up. “Where are we?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?” D’Artagnan asked instead. Athos squinted at him, as if personally affronted. He pressed a hand to his forehead, brows crinkling.

“Er… I was dispatched to deliver correspondences to the border… I did so; and stayed for a few days at the Duke’s estate. He was a great admirer of Austrian wine. We drank together, and… And his wife came in?” he shook his head. “After that, all I remember are shadows, blurs… I was drinking? I think I remember Aramis praying. Is he here?” he twisted around, as if Aramis would appear from thin air.

“Aramis,” D’Artagnan began, stressing each syllable with barely contained ire. “Is a few meters from here, at a stream, cleaning the vomit and blood from his clothes with Porthos.”

“ _Blood?”_ Athos stiffened immediately. “What do you mean, blood? What… What happened?” He doubled over to cough painfully, and a stab of fear went through D’Artagnan. What if Porthos was right? What if the guilt and his injuries killed Athos?

“You stabbed him.”

“I… What?” Athos stared at him as if he had gone mad. “D’Artagnan, what in the world are you talking about? _Where are we_? And why does my side hurt so much?” he asked. D’Artagnan exhaled slowly, trying to assemble his straying thoughts and emotions into some semblance of an order.

After a few moments of silence, he still couldn’t do it. All that emerged was the truth. “Aramis shot you.”

Athos snorted. “He would never.”

“It was to save your life.”

“That sounds more plausible. Was I captured? It wouldn’t be the first time,” Athos wondered, sounding put upon. He looked around. “I suppose this is where the fight happened. Did we win, at least?”

D’Artagnan scoffed a wet laugh. _Did we win?_

“Athos. I am going to tell you the story of what happened last night. You are going to listen. Don’t interrupt. Don’t say anything until I’ve finished, alright? Porthos and Aramis have been blinded by their own guilt and their love for you too long. I love you too. But I can’t, I _won’t_ , watch you destroy yourself and our friends like this. Even if it means you never look me in the eye again.”

Athos stared at him. Something like fear flickered across his features, then smoothed into simple confusion. “D’Artagnan….”

“You had been missing four days,” D’Artagnan began, his voice calm, emotionless, scoured clean of the fury, hurt, betrayal and fear that had plagued him the entire night. “When we finally approached the Captain about going out to find you. It took us another five to track you down. That’s nine days you were alone, lost in your own mind and darkness. You must have started drinking. A lot.” He looked away.

“When we found you, you were over there. In that corner, huddled like a dying animal. You had destroyed everything in here. The chairs, the tables, drunk half the rum and wine the tavern owner had and scared away all his customers when you started waving a sword and pistol around. I didn’t know what we would find. I was… Astonished, to say the least. I thought someone had hurt or drugged you. But Porthos and Aramis knew what to do. They’ve done it before.”

“I…” Athos rubbed his forehead. “I have no memory of this.”

“The tavern owner and I started arguing. It must have triggered something in you because suddenly you attacked. You drew your sword on us, and we fought for our lives. You fired your pistol at Porthos. The bullet grazed him, right here,” he drew a line down his upper bicep, staring at the spot where Porthos had fallen. Athos’s breaths surged in and out of him like cresting waves.

“If you’re trying to make me feel guilty for getting drunk…”

“You had your pistol drawn so Aramis drew his. You were screaming about devils and voices. Aramis told you to put the pistol down, so you trained it on him. You begged him to kill you. He refused. So you tried to turn the pistol on yourself.” Athos inhaled a deep breath.

“I’d never!” he tried, but D’Artagnan plowed on.

“Aramis shot you in the side to stop you from killing yourself,” he nodded at Athos’s wound. “We retired to a noisy inn a few miles up the road. There, Aramis dug the bullet out and stitched your wounds. We were forced to tie you to the bedpost lest you hurt yourself. You screamed. You struggled. You spat. You told us horrible, horrible things. Aramis and Porthos held you down and I…” His voice cracked.

“I had to force bread with bloodroot into your mouth and choke you to make you swallow. I had to _smother you_ , Athos. Then you vomited everything, all over the place, and when you had vomited all this damn _poison_ from your veins!” he swept a hand around to indicate the broken wine bottles.

“You begged for more drink. Just a little, you said. We told you no. It would have killed you to even smell alcohol in that moment, but did you listen? Of course not. I was sent away to deliver some damn letters!” He slapped the ground, blood rushing in his ears. “When I returned, you were asleep like a babe. In the time I’d been gone, you’d bruised Porthos bloody and stabbed Aramis!”

“Stop!” Athos cried, shoving him away weakly. “Why are you telling me these lies? I would never do such a thing!”

“YOU KNOW YOU DID!” D’Artagnan exploded. “Think _back,_ Athos! Remember all the times you’ve woken up sore and weak? No memory because the drink snuffed it out of you! Were there ever times when Aramis and Porthos were mysteriously bruised? What did they tell you, huh? That you were engaged in a simple tavern brawl with The Red Guard?!”

“You know who I am!” Athos snapped. “You know that I lose control sometimes. If you’d wish to shame me for it…!”

“I am not shaming you, I am trying to save you!” D’Artagnan hissed. He grabbed Athos’s chin in a steel grip, forced him to look around. “Look! Look at what you did, Athos! Look at the destruction you caused!”

“Get off me!” Athos yelled. He shoved him away so harshly he toppled over, holding his burning side with a muffled curse. “You’re lying!”

“I am telling you the truth!”

Athos staggered to his knees, eyeing D’Artagnan warily. “Maybe I did destroy this place,” he seethed. “Maybe I did scare away the customers and break these chairs. I know I’m capable, but to… To draw a weapon against _my friends_? To try and take my own life before the eyes of my brothers? To hurt them? No. Never.”

“Fine,” he spat. “Don’t believe me. See for yourself when Porthos and Aramis return to the inn, dirty and injured and in good spirits. There will be shadows in their eyes. They will sound as if they have been screaming. They will lie to you, tell you an amusing and well-concocted tale about how Aramis saw a pretty face or Porthos tried to swindle the wrong man and you jumped into the fray. You’ll be the hero in their eyes because they love you. But you weren’t the hero, Athos. You were a monster.”

“How dare you…!”

“I dare!” D’Artagnan jumped forward, yanked Athos forward by the front of his shirt until the tips of their noses brushed. “I dare because one day you’re going to wake up, soaked in your own vomit and blood, and look around. You’ll look around and find Porthos and Aramis dead at your side, having bled to death even as they tried to help you. You won’t remember. You won’t even know that it was _you_ who killed them. In your drunken despair, you murdered the men who treasure you more than their own lives!”

“Enough!” Athos shoved himself away. He nearly collapsed against an upturned table, gasping for breath. “Where… Where are they? Where is Porthos and Aramis!?”

“I told you. Not here. Recovering from your addiction.”

“You’re a liar,” Athos panted, head bowed. “They would have told me.”

“That’s why I am. Because they won’t,” D’Artagnan breathed, watching Athos from the ground, suddenly feeling inexplicably heavy. “In fact, they made me swear not to tell a soul. Including you. I am throwing away any chance at friendship with them just by bringing you here! And perhaps I could have lived by their terms,” his shoulders fell. A tear dribbled down his cheek.

“Perhaps I could have lived as they do, waiting and watching for the next time you _lose control_ , as you put it, except I saw them. I saw what this night wrought upon them, and I listened to their reasons. They believe you _do not love them_ , Athos.”

“No,” Athos whimpered. His fingers tangled in his hair. “Stop it.”

“They consider themselves failures as your brothers and unworthy to be your friends because you can’t stop this! They blame themselves; and dread the day when you finally take your own life because they were too inadequate to save you!”

“It has never been about them!” Athos shouted hoarsely. He raised his head. “It’s my burden to bear! My mistakes which have made me thus! I am beyond saving!”

D’Artagnan threw up his hands because who had _done_ this to Athos? Who had bent and twisted his soul to the point of complete and utter self-denial? He would kill them. Slowly. Without mercy.

“That isn’t true,” he cried. “Not at all, but if you want to believe it, you should know that you are dragging Aramis and Porthos down with you into the darkness! One day you will look up and realize that while you were wallowing in your own delusions of worthlessness, you killed your friends!”

“SHUT UP!” Athos screamed, sinking to his knees. He bowed his head until it touched the floor, shoulders shaking.

“I’m sorry, Athos,” it was only now that he realized he was sobbing too. “I had to tell you. Because I love you three more than I am afraid to lose you.”

“Athos?!” D’Artagnan swiveled as Aramis’s voice broke through the doors. “D’Artagnan!” He exhaled a shuddering breath.

It was time.

Porthos and Aramis broke past the doors with all the tact of two bulls. “Athos!” Aramis yelled, running to his friend. His hands ran over him, desperately. “Are you alright? D’Artagnan, what the hell were you thinking?!”

“I told him,” D’Artagnan whispered. Aramis’s eyes snapped up to meet his, blazing. A second later, D’Artagnan cried out as two large hands gripped him by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the far wall. He met Porthos’s furious eyes calmly.

“You _what_?” Porthos hissed.

D’Artagnan rested a hand on his fists. “It has to end, Porthos.”

Porthos growled once. “Get out,” he hissed, shoving D’Artagnan hard at the door.

He turned, imploring. “Porthos!”

“I warned you! Now _get out_!”

“Wait!” All three of them turned. Athos was leaning heavily on Aramis, fingers locked around his biceps as he struggled to stand. He was staring at Porthos’s bruised face with horror. “Is it true?” He whispered. Porthos took a step forward.

“Athos…”

“Is it _true?”_ Athos repeated _._ “Did I do this?” He waved at the broken remains of the tavern, at Porthos’s bruises and the wound on his side. “Have I _always_ done this?”

Aramis touched his face. “Brother, we need to get you away from here.”

“Tell me the truth.”

“I…”

“The _truth_ , Aramis. Now.”

Aramis gulped, exchanged a long look with Porthos, and seemed to just… Sag in on himself. “It wasn’t your fault,” he whispered.

“Oh God,” Athos backed away, shaking his head. “Oh God, what have I…? What have I done?”

“Athos, look, it’s alright, aye?" Porthos gestured to hi sinjured arm and face, as if that proved anything. "Nothing but bruises, brother. It’s fine.”

“This is _not_ fine!” Athos shouted. “I destroyed this place! I… I… D’Artagnan says I _shot_ you?” He stared at the bandage around Porthos’s arm. The large man sent a glance full of hatred D’Artagnan’s way.

“It’s only a scratch! Hardly needed stitches!”

“I _shot_ you, Porthos! And what about Marseille?”

“Marseille?” D’Artagnan echoed, confused.

Athos stared at his brothers, backing away slowly as if he were debating bolting out of the door. His eyes were wide and horrified in the light. “Marseille, when you both looked as if you had been trampled by bulls. Aramis, you had a broken rib. And someone had stabbed Porthos in the kidney. You both could have died. I didn’t remember a thing, but you said we’d been attacked on the road. Was that me, too?”

D’Artagnan inhaled a sharp breath. He swiveled to stare at the other two men. Aramis had gravitated closer to Porthos, and they stood there, heads bowed in shame. The silence was answer enough. D’Artagnan covered his mouth as vomit slithered up his throat.

“In the name of…!” Athos suddenly grabbed hold of a chair leg behind him and flung it to the side with a cry of rage. Aramis flinched. Porthos stiffened. “How many times have you both lied to me? What would you have said had I killed one of you tonight? Would you have let me go on, every day, never knowing that I had blood on my hands?”

Athos turned away before anyone could answer. “My God, how many times must I be deceived by those I care about?! How could you two lie to me about this?!” He spat. D’Artagnan felt as if the entire world had just flipped on its head. Disbelief he had expected. Confusion, anger, guilt, but not… Not _this._

“Don’t turn this around on them!” He exploded. “For years, Porthos and Aramis have tended your wounds, kept you alive and protected you with their lives! They did it out of love for you, Athos! It is _you_ who has betrayed them!”

“They did it to prolong my suffering!”

D’Artagnan spluttered indignantly. “W-what? How could you even…!”

“Get out of my sight!” Athos spat, chucking a broken bottle at them. He was so weak that it clattered to the ground at his own feet. “I’ll not associate myself with liars and deceivers! Not again!”

“Athos, c’mon!”

“Athos, please,” Aramis interjected desperately. “We never meant to lie to you. We only wanted to spare you pain, brother. It was wrong, but we meant it with the best intentions!”

“We know we aren’t enough, aye? But we’re _tryin_ , Athos, we’d give anything to see you at peace!” Porthos agreed.

“Get away from me!”

“Athos, _please_ …”

“LEAVE ME!”

Silence. Then, Porthos took a tiny step backwards, eyed glued to Athos’s face. As if he were trying to memorize the features. He rested one hand on Aramis’s shoulder. “Let’s go, then,” he gulped.

“No,” D’Artagnan whispered. This was the complete opposite of what he had wanted to happen. He had expected to lose them, but never to see them lose one another.

_Porthos was right. This has torn them apart. **I** tore them apart. _

“Athos,” Aramis called softly. Slowly, never taking his eyes off the prone figure, he lifted the Queen’s rosary from his neck. Placed it lovingly on the floor between them. “Take this. As a reminder that you are never without solace,” he stood, and allowed Porthos to pull him away. “And to remind you of how much we love you. Always.” Then they were gone, quiet as rustling wind.

D’Artagnan stood where he was. Minutes, or hours passed, and he could not bring himself to move. Fury, cold and stormy, whipped through him. _You cold-hearted, selfish bastard!_ He wanted to shout at Athos. _You just broke their hearts!_

_And mine._

Instead, he only shook his head and turned to leave.

“Oh God,” Athos finally wheezed sounding as if his lungs had been crushed. Behind D’Artagnan, something heavy crashed to the wooden floor. He didn’t have to see to know that Athos had collapsed. “Oh God, that was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. D’Artagnan,” he halted, fists clenching. “Follow them. Look after them, I beg you.”

_What?_

Now D’Artagnan swiveled on a heel. Athos lay half slumped against a toppled table, one hand fisting the fabric above his heart. He looked up, and D’Artagnan saw the way his shoulders shook with silent weeping. “M-make sure they make it back to P-Paris. That they’re happy. Please,” he begged.

“What the hell are you going on about? You just sent them away!”

“I did it to protect them, you fool!” Athos shouted back, doubling over with a hiss of pain. Something clicked into place in D’Artagnan’s mind.

 _Oh, you idiot._ “You saw them,” Athos choked out. “How many times have I been the instrument of their pain? How many times have I hurt them? They _blamed_ themselves, D’Artagnan. Their loyalty to me blinds them. I cannot… I cannot allow it to happen again. They are safer, and more likely to have a happier existence, far away from me. Here,” with a pained grunt, Athos reached over to tear the Pauldron from his shoulder. He offered it to D’Artagnan with shaking hands. “Take it. I am unworthy to be called their comrade. Take my place. Take everything. Just promise me you’ll look after them.”

“I won’t.”

“D’Artagnan…”

“I am sick of people demanding impossible promises from me!” D’Artagnan cried. “Now listen here, Athos. You just broke their hearts! If you truly cared for them at all…!”

“You think that was easy for me?” Athos screeched. “I’d rather have carved out my own lungs than see the looks of betrayal on their faces! They are _my brothers_. Telling them to leave was akin to tearing out my own soul. But this is the best way to keep them safe,” Athos hung his head. “I destroy everything I touch.”

 _I cannot **believe** this._ It was uncanny. How had these exact men ever met? Was there some sort of club for those who made stupid decisions out of guilt and feelings of unworthiness?

 _What does it say about me that I want so desperately to be one of them?_ D’Artagnan decided it meant that Divine Providence had sent him to make sure Les Trois _idiots_ didn’t make any more stupid choices. He strode over to Athos like a waiting thunderstorm and grabbed his upper arm. “Get up.”

Athos stared at him through eyes misty with pain. He may have had a fever. _Good. He deserves it._ “What?”

“Get up!” D’Artagnan snapped. “We’re going after them. You’re going to beg their forgiveness. Get _the Hell up,_ Athos.”

“I will not! I don’t deserve it!”

“Damn right you don’t!” He sneered, but when Athos ducked his head, D’Artagnan’s chest clenched. He knelt beside his brother, reaching out to swipe a lock of disheveled hair from his face.

“Athos,” he spoke gentler now. “I have seen other men obsessed with drink. It’s like… Like a disease. A pox. The urge invades your mind without your control or willingness. Usually you handle it honorably, and I know that these past few weeks would have been trying for anyone. You cannot punish yourself this way.”

Athos exhaled a slow breath. “It is as you said, what if one day I wake up and discover that my actions have killed them? Or you? D’Artagnan, I can imagine no worse existence. Anne’s death is my own sin to deal with. I’ll not allow it to take the lives of such good men.”

“If you really believed that, you wouldn’t let it take yours either,” D’Artagnan reminded him with a small smile.

Athos’s eyes snapped up to meet his. “How… how can you say that? After seeing what I am capable of?” He breathed.

He swooped Athos’s arm around his neck. Athos only struggled a moment before realizing that in his weakened state, D’Artagnan could easily just fling him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Because I have seen _everything_ that you’re capable of,” D’Artagnan replied. “The good and the bad. I know you’re a deeply flawed man. Selfish, aloof, but that you’re also one of the kindest, most honorable and loyal men I have ever met. Do you want the best for Aramis and Porthos?”

Athos dipped his head. “I’d give anything to ensure their happiness and safety,” he said huskily.

“Yeah. I thought so,” D’Artagnan shoved his Pauldron back onto his shoulder where it belonged. Athos stared at it as if were the Holy Grail. “Your brothers love you. Nothing is going to change that. Besides,” he stopped, scooped Aramis’s cross from the ground and offered it to its new owner. Athos clung to it as if it were a lifeline. “This deserves to be returned to its rightful owner, don’t you agree?”


	5. Fireside Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis and Porthos go missing, and the hunt to reunite Les Inseparables is on.

“There’s at least twelve meters of land between here and Paris,” D’Artagnan groaned, later, when he and Athos had finally cleared out their belongings at the inn. All of Aramis and Porthos’s possessions were already gone. The room immaculate. As if nothing had ever happened.

D’Artagnan was starting to get a _massive_ headache. 

Athos, sitting on the horse in front of him, sighed. “I know where they are.”

Of course he did. And they had searched the inn because he was stalling. “You do?” D’Artagnan demanded. Athos’s eyes were far away as he searched the horizon. It was mid-day now. A cool breeze brushed over their shoulders, smooth as a kiss.

“There are abandoned ruins in the woods not far from here. We’ve taken shelter there before,” he wheezed, doubling over in the saddle. A rough cough rattled his frame. Not for the first time, D’Artagnan wondered if he were doing the right thing. Maybe Athos needed a physician, not to be dragged all around the countryside after two men who could easily handle themselves.

“Sounds reasonable, but why not just ride for Paris?” Athos arched a brow at him.

“Would you want to face Treveille in this state of mind?”

Ah. “Good point,” he flung himself into the saddle behind Athos. “Guide me in the right direction.”

“What will I even _say_ to them?”

D’Artagnan had not been in the habit of practicing mercy all day. He wasn’t about to start now. “Worry about it when we get there.”

Athos sighed, defeated. “East.”

D’Artagnan tried to relax into the familiar gait of the beast, but Athos’s stiff posture prevented him. He rolled his eyes. These three would be the death of him. “Athos. Don’t worry. We’ll find them,” he said. Athos only hummed in reply. “Alright, what is it now?”

“I could have killed them,” Athos fretted. “My own brothers.”

_And yourself._ But of course, Athos wouldn’t think about that. “You didn’t. That’s what matters now, and we’re going to help you get better.”

“That will never erase the pain I’ve already inflicted.”

“They’ll forgive you.”

“That’s what scares me,” Athos agreed hoarsely. He played with Aramis’s rosary around his neck. “I don’t trust myself not to let them down. That could cost them their lives, and they are good men.”

“Do you think, after everything they’ve done to protect you, that they don’t feel the same?” Athos paled. “Athos, are you sorry for what you’ve said and done up to this point?”

“I have never been sorrier about a thing in my life.”

“Are you willing to change?” Athos hesitated. Then sighed.

“I-I don’t know if I can, but for them, for you,” he squeezed D’Artagnan’s knee. “I am willing to try,” D’Artagnan grinned, touched that he had been included. He had no doubt that Porthos and Aramis would stick to their own view of the night’s proceedings. He had betrayed their trust. It was good to know he may still have a friend in Athos, though his heart throbbed all the same.

“Good enough for me. For now, at least,” he poked Athos in the shoulder. “You should probably rehearse your apology. You know how much they love a dramatic flair. Try wailing in grief,” he grinned when he received a half-hearted chuckle in reply.

“Aramis would only join me,” Athos predicted fondly. “Porthos would clonk us over our heads, or else go to his knees and attempt a soliloquy.”

D’Artagnan barked a laugh at the mental image. “I’d pay good money for that show.”

“As would half the regiment,” Athos sighed. “You were right, D’Artagnan, I don’t know what I was thinking forcing them away. I miss the idiots already.”

“That’s the spirit!” He crowed, slapping Athos on the back. “We’ll find them and commence with the traveling side-show immediately.”

“If they can even stand the sight of me anymore.”

_The sight of both of us,_ D’Artagnan added in his mind. But aloud he said nothing, and they continued to ride in silence.

* * *

The abandoned ruins stood like the jagged teeth of some dead animal. Its ruined towers half crumpling back into the Earth where it took up space. Buried in a cove of large trees and bushes, it made for a splendid sight, majestic, bold.

D’Artagnan barely noticed. “Aramis!” He called for the tenth time. “Porthos! Can you hear me?!” He paced worriedly when only the chirping birds replied. He turned in time to see Athos galloping toward him, his own expression a mask of concern. They had been searching the ruins for twenty minutes; and had yet to find any sign of their missing friends.

“Anything?”

“This,” Athos answered, reaching down to hand him a small piece of torn cloth. It had been dirtied and carried a trace of vomit and blood. “Part of Porthos’s shirt.”

“So they _were_ here,” D’Artagnan bit out past the sudden lump in his throat. “Where could they have gone so soon? Back to Paris?”

“Doubtful. I also found this,” D’Artagnan accepted the small coin that Athos offered him, staring at the dirtied and dented silver. It had words inscribed into it, an identifying marker. _Like our Pauldrons,_ he realized.

“A local militia?”

Athos nodded. “Closer to the border, the King often employs citizens to act as a military force in times of scarcity. I’ve no clue what these men could be doing this far North,” Athos contemplated. “Unless they had been especially summoned.”

“You think they took Aramis and Porthos?”

“I don’t see any other alternative. Unless they were besieged by bandits, but then where are the signs of a fight? Struggle?” Athos shook his head. “No, _mon ami_. It looks as if they were treated roughly; but went of their own volition.” _But why?_

Aramis and Porthos were reluctant to follow orders on a good day, unless they came from someone that they trusted. To think that they would go with some strange militiamen without a fight… D’Artagnan crossed his arms and sighed. This day just kept getting better. “The nearest town is only an hour’s ride. We may find our answers there,” he pointed out. Athos clutched the soiled piece of Porthos’s shirt in trembling hands.

“Very well,” he murmured, not looking up. “Let’s embark.”

* * *

“I’m telling you, seamstresses are the ones who know everything in a city,” D’Artagnan insisted hours later. It was growing darker, the early afternoon sun just starting to cast shadows on the ground.

The streets were beginning to wane of activity, merchants closing up their stands for the night and civilians scampering into the warmth of their homes or taverns for the night. The small, inconspicuous municipal building had already closed. Yet Constance had taught him that there was one piece of the city that didn’t retire until the early hours of dawn. The seamstresses.

“Very well,” Athos grumbled. He had been snappy and disgruntled since discovering that their friends were missing. A combination of pain from his wound and worry.

D’Artagnan glanced over at him, taking in his bedraggled appearance and dour expression. “Maybe you should wait with the horses. Try to find a warm place to sleep. A local tavern may…”

“I very much doubt I will step foot in a tavern for a long time after this,” Athos interrupted curtly. D’Artagnan smiled.

“As glad as I am to hear it, you’re still injured, Athos. You need rest.”

Athos shook his head and pushed past D’Artagnan into the well-lit saloon. “I need to find my friends. Come on then.”

_This should be good,_ D’Artagnan thought with a sigh. He followed Athos, stepping into a room with about four women sitting in chairs. Long tapestries of beautiful cloth and pieces of ribbon were strewn across their legs as they spoke quietly.

“Ladies, pardon the intrusion,” Athos bowed low as they looked up. “We’re here looking for comrades of ours. We were hoping you may have some information as to their whereabouts.”

_Aramis would have an easier time of this,_ D’Artagnan bemoaned as he saw suspicion and wariness cross the faces of the ladies. As terrible as he and Athos looked, he could hardly blame them for believing them some sort of murderer or highwaymen. “We’re King’s Musketeers,” he offered.

“My name is D’Artagnan. This is Athos. We were on a mission for the king when we were... Ah, unfortunately separated from our comrades. We’ve ridden hard and far searching for them, which explains our impropriety at the moment,” he gestured to their mud-stained and wrinkled trousers.

The women relaxed. “Ah, poor dears!” One of the younger ones exclaimed. Her hair, a flaming knot of reddish gold atop her head, reminded D’Artagnan with a pang of Constance. She gestured to the blazing fireplace. “Would you like to get warm by our hearth?”

“Bless you, madame,” D’Artagnan said, shoving Athos at the fireplace. His commander went with a cross glance over his shoulder, gently easing himself to the ground by the fire. D’Artagnan settled next to him, exhaling a breath of relief when the warm flames seared his back.

“Now, what can we do for you boys?” The elder inquired. Her hair, snow white, was strung into a neat bow on her head, and despite the wrinkles and veins along her wrists, her fingers moved with dexterity and grace. None of the women had ceased their work, yet they stared at the two Musketeers, perfectly amiable.

“We think our comrades may have come through this way, or else been taken.”

The unified gasp of shock was instantaneous. “Oh my!”

“There were these two troublemakers who was brought this way,” the matriarch began dramatically, squinting into the fire. “I remember. The militiamen brought them in, chained up. They wore clothes like yours,” she wrinkled her nose.

“Troublemakers?” Athos asked, deadpan.

“Yes, yes, frightful business they got up too. There’s a tavern owner, Erie, he lives a few meters down the road. His entire tavern was wrecked, destroyed, _obliterated_ by these two men! Took his stores of wine, scared away his customers, everything! They admitted to it themselves, thank the Almighty.” Beside him, Athos stiffened.

“One of them was so handsome. A shame he’s a criminal,” the younger one sighed.

“How would you know?” One of the girls demanded.

“I went to the trial while on break. I saw them. Big, rugged men. They couldn’t have been your comrades,” she assured a horrified D’Artagnan. “But the one was _so_ very good-looking. He spoke like a poet at the stand, too, apologizing to Erie and promising that God would see their wicked souls set straight. He winked at me and I near swooned, criminal or not.”

“A poet criminal?” the matriarch contemplated as the others giggled.

“That’s Aramis,” Athos interrupted. D’Artagnan elbowed him sharply. “He is one of our comrades, and I can promise you, he and Porthos were not responsible for the destruction of that man’s tavern.”

“What? But they confessed, monsieur!”

“They were protecting the real perpetrator,” Athos declared thickly. “In a foolish move of loyalty, but he has betrayed them anyhow.”

“Who is the real perpetrator?”

“Athos and I already apprehended the brigand,” D’Artagnan broke in before Athos’s guilt forced him to say something foolish. He had enough brothers in jail right now. “He is on his way to Paris, where the King will be informed, and Erie compensated for his losses. We need to get our friends out of here, though. You said there was already a trial?”

“Why, yes, earlier today. The execution is set for the morning,” the younger gasped, one hand going to her heart.

“ _Execution?_ ” D’Artagnan squeaked. “For a little mess?”

“It was hardly small,” Athos pointed out, dryly.

“Only the big one is being executed,” the matriarch offered. “The one with Negro blood? Yes. He is to die come morning, after the church bells have rung. The Spanish-looking one…”

“He’s _French_ ,” Athos and D’Artagnan corrected in a tight unison.

“He’s being shipped off to the colonies for hard labor,” Athos exhaled a slow breath, leaning forward to run a hand through his hair worriedly. D’Artagnan pursed his lips.

“Where is the prison?” He asked.

“The magistrate won’t just let you waltz inside.”

“We didn’t intend to ask him,” Athos informed them politely.

“Listen,” D’Artagnan tried when Athos’s remark only caused a ripple of disgruntlement among their kind guests. “Those are our friends. They’ve been convicted of terrible crimes, but they’re innocent. We need to get them out.”

“They confessed!” The redhead insisted, crossing her arms.

“They’re not guilty!” Athos yelled. “Now, where are they?”

“Please,” D’Artagnan added.

The ladies stared at them for a long moment, then glanced among themselves. Finally, all eyes surreptitiously went to the matriarch. For the first time in the conversation her fingers stilled in her lap. Her chin tipped up as she regarded them with steely gray eyes. Then, she sighed.

“The prison is on the other side of the river,” she reported. “Cross the bridge and you’ll see it. The docks are a few blocks to the right,” Athos was up a second after, storming out of the room with only a grunt of pain. D’Artagnan scrambled up and bowed low to their audience.

“You all have our sincere thanks, and that of the King. For your time, kindness and honesty we are forever in your debt.”

“Your friend could benefit from your manners,” one of the girls sneered. D’Artagnan didn’t tell her that normally Athos had the prettiest manners out of all of them. He only granted them an apologetic smile and then bounded out of the door after Athos. A fine fog of rain was beginning to fall.

D’Artagnan found Athos marching to the docks. He ran and grabbed his arm. “Athos, wait!”

“For what?” Athos demanded. “You heard them! Aramis and Porthos are scheduled for death in the morning!” D’Artagnan ignored the chill seeping into his neck.

“First, you’re still injured and the elements are against us tonight. Second, d’you think that they _meant_ to be executed?” That made Athos blink, obviously taken aback. His expression screwed into thoughtfulness. Then,

“No. I imagine they thought they’d escape shortly after being arrested and fake their demise so as to put the whole matter to rest.”

“Um… Very astute hypothesis.”

“I’ve fought beside them for six years. I would know. My worry is that they haven’t escaped, which means that something is wrong. Aramis would never allow Porthos to go to the scaffold willingly, and Porthos would be well into his grave before he saw Aramis shipped off to banana plantations,” D’Artagnan nodded his agreement.

“Maybe they haven’t had time to escape yet. They were captured, when, a few hours ago? They may escape tonight.”

“Your point?”

“I’m saying that we should wait until morning…”

“When Porthos is supposed to be _hanged,_ you mean?”

“She said after the church bells have rung. That gives us most of the morning to rescue him if he hasn’t escaped already! You need rest.”

“D’Artagnan, even if they do manage to escape, then we’ll have lost them all over again! They could vanish into the countryside and we will never find them, or they could be shot in the meantime and…”

“Athos,” he sighed. “We’re talking about two of the most skilled soldiers in the regiment. They will be _fine,_ we will find them come morning, and all will be well,” he wrapped an arm around Athos’s wavering shoulders, squeezed. “Trust me.”

Athos capitulated, eyes falling. “I… I can hardly believe they are still showing me loyalty. After the terrible things I said…” He murmured.

D’Artagnan could hardly believe it either. He had spent months with these men, enough time to get a glimpse of the loyalty that they showed each other. Yet _this_ , this was something else.

“I hope you’ve been practicing that apology,” he agreed. “It’s gotta be good.”


	6. Digging Through the Rot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos and D'Artagnan search for Porthos in a hell-hole, have a moment of heart-stopping fear and remind everyone of all the reasons they're both useless.

They (or, D’Artagnan, rather) somehow managed to find lodging with an ambitious merchant. After some time in which D’Artagnan promised him that the King would her of his loyalty and generosity, and his special baubles, trinkets and art pieces, the man had gladly agreed to let them sleep in his attic.

It had been musty, filled with treasure chests of spiders and useless cloth. But it was dry and warm. D’Artagnan had finally managed to sleep, though he had heard Athos tossing periodically through the night. Practicing his apology in his sleep, no doubt. When the Merchant woke them at dawn with a loud exclamation and genial offer of breakfast, D’Artagnan had been overjoyed.

He was less so now.

“Why aren’t we ever thrown in _nice_ jails?” He groaned, scratching at the back of his neck. Rancid water was dripping from the stone ceilings. It splashed down the back of his shirt, smelling of piss.

Athos, stalking down the hall in front of him, didn’t answer. He held a small torch in his hand. There was no other source of light down here. A rat skittered over D’Artagnan’s foot, large as a cat, screeching. It carried something distinctly finger-like in its mouth. Somewhere down the adjacent hall, a man screamed.

They had knocked out four guards in order to sneak into the death pits that this town sported as a prison. Porthos had not been chained in any of the hellholes above. This was the final floor, deep underground, and smelling of torture and blood. Many of the bodies they had seen through the bars of the cage were already dead, of disease, beatings or starvation. Sitting lifeless among other decomposing bodies and skeletons.

D’Artagnan could barely imagine spending an hour trapped in here, much less a night. He imagined Porthos would not have fancied it either. _If he hasn’t already escaped_ , which in D’Artagnan’s opinion, had probably already happened. Porthos was too smart and resourceful to waste hours away in this muck, injured or not.

_He’s probably in a nice tavern, sipping ale and having a good laugh with Aramis about how glad they are to be rid of us foolish idiots…_

“D’Artagnan,” Athos whispered, without turning or stopping. “I can hear you complaining from here.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You were thinking it.” D’Artagnan sulked silently. “By all means, if you’re uncomfortable, you are under no obligation to stay and help fix my folly,” Athos continued between clenched teeth. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes.

“Like I could leave now. They’re my friends too, you know.”

“Then help me look.”

“Athos, they’ve already escaped. I’m telling you…”

“I can feel it,” Athos interrupted, with sudden desperation. “I can feel it, D’Artagnan, something is wrong. I don’t know what, but we’re running out of time _so help me_. Please.”

Treveille’s words rang in his mind. _“…Close comrades often develop a sixth sense about each other, and this insight is never to be ignored.”_

D’Artagnan gulped. Above them, the executioners were already preparing the scaffold. Soon, the ships at port would head out into sea, enroute to the Islands. “Why don’t we ask?” He demanded. Athos glanced behind him. A thin sheen of sweat had broken out along his brow. He arched a brow at D’Artagnan’s suggestion, swayed lightly on his feet.

“Good idea,” he gulped. D’Artagnan went from cell to cell, peering inside for any signs of life. It wasn’t until he arrived at the fourth cell that one of the prisoners stirred, squinting at him when Athos shined the torch through the bars.

“Food,” the poor man whispered, reaching out a shaking, skeletal hand. “Please, food?”

Athos fished a bit of leftover biscuit from his pocket, tossed it inside the cell. The prisoner pounced on it with a quickness that belied his emaciated state and preceded to swallow it whole, then lick any crumbs from his fingers and the floor. D’Artagnan felt pity war with disgust in his gut.

“We have a question for you,” Athos said. “There was a man who was brought in here yesterday. Large shoulders, tall as Goliath, dressed like a soldier. Do you know where he is?”

The prisoner squinted at them. “Food?” he rasped again.

“You’ll get more when you answer our question.”

A shrug, large eyes glued to the crumbly biscuit that D’Artagnan waved. “Big man, dark-skinned, arrested for destroying a tavern?” He asked.

“That’s him.”

“He was executed a few hours ago.” D’Artagnan felt his stomach drop to his feet. Athos paled completely, his mouth opening and closing like a fish who had just been yanked from the water. He stumbled back, now nauseous for an altogether different reason. “Food, please?”

“What do you mean he was executed hours ago? His execution wasn’t set for a few hours _from_ now! They haven’t even finished the scaffolding!” D’Artagan shouted, surging forward to slam his fists against the metal bars. The man cowered in the far corner, but his eyes never left the food.

“He got mouthy! They took him away early this morn, and I heard a shot. He’s gone,” he pointed a shaky finger to the left. “They haul the dead bodies that way, to a storage closet at the very end. That’s why we have so many rats. They leave em there to rot. Food, please?”

Athos was down the hall like a shot. D’Artagnan threw the beggar more food, and followed just as Athos slammed against a rotting wooden door at the very end of the hall. He flung it open, and instantly a few bodies wrapped in dirty, musty cloth rolled from its depths.

D’Artagnan skid to a stop, his palm slamming to his nose as he gagged on the smell. Athos didn’t even notice. He fell to his knees and started shoving the bodies away. “Porthos?! Porthos!” He cried hoarsely. “Can you hear me?" He stopped, as if listening for a reply. When none came, he continued to dig through half-rotting corpses, muttering. "He must be in here. It must be part of his escape ploy… It must be….”

D’Artagnan swallowed the vomit trying to work its way up his sternum and knelt beside Athos to tear at the cloth covering the faces of the dead bodies with trembling hands. What would he do if he found Porthos among the dead? What would _Athos_ do?

“Porthos!” Suddenly, a particularly large bulk tumbled from somewhere on top of the pile. It landed before Athos with a solid _thunk._ It did not smell as badly as the others, and the still spreading blood in the chest area testified to a fresh kill. The blanket surrounding it was ripped, exposing one brown shoulder and thin, blood splattered cloth that exactly matched Porthos’s ruined undershirt.

“No,” D’Artagnan whispered. His chest clenched so tight he couldn’t breathe. His stomach clenched once, _tight_ , then roiled. A second later, he dove away and vomited violently. The sounds of his retching joined the various groans of the men around them.

Athos sat back on his knees. His chin tipped forward to his chest. His fists clenched. “I’m sorry,” D’Artagnan whispered once his insides had finished turning inside out. The world spun and he realized that his grief was strong enough to make his body rebel. Athos, meanwhile, was deathly still. “Athos, it’s my fault. If I hadn’t insisted that we search in the morning….”

“No. No, this is my doing,” Athos murmured. He placed a shaking hand on the corpse’s covered head. “They took the blame for my folly and now one of my best friends is…” a harsh sob. Athos tipped to his hands and knees. “Oh God, what have _I done?”_

He did not make a sound, and the only movement of his body was the hitching slide of his shoulders. His body trembled so much D'Artagnan could see his clothes rattling even in the dim light. He pulled his knees to his chest and buried his face in them, face burning with shame. Despite what Athos said, he knew that he had played a part in this tragedy too, and he would never forgive himself…

He was so absorbed in his despair that he nearly didn’t hear the quick footsteps approaching him until he was cuffed upside the head. He startled upright, one hand on his sword. Then promptly staggered backward.

“P-Porthos?” He gawked.

Porthos didn’t look especially pleased to see him. “Oi! Would you stop it? All that moanin is gonna alert the guards! What’re you bawlin about anyway?” He demanded. He was dressed only in his leather pants and a new undershirt which looked as if it had had much, much better days. It hung on his large frame like a curtain of muck. The bandage around his arm was fraying and heavy with dried blood.

D’Artagnan threw himself on his friend with a cry of joy. “Porthos! You’re alive!” He laughed.

Porthos shoved him backward with more gentleness than he deserved, gave him an odd look. “What else would I be?” He gruffed. His eyes strayed to the corpse below them; and widened in understanding. Then quickly flashed with affront.

“What, you idiots can’t tell the difference between one black man and the next?!” He hissed.

“What? No!” D’Artagnan spluttered, with a glance at Athos. He remained kneeling, wet eyes staring up at Porthos as if in a trance. “He’s wearing your shirt!”

“Ah, yeah. I switched wit ‘im before he was executed. We shared a cell. Sad to see him go, he was a good man, that Paul. Defiant till the end,” Porthos started to push past him to get a closer look at his dead cellmate. He stopped when he came face to face with Athos. Porthos’s expression darkened. “What are _you_ doin here?” He sneered.

“We…” Athos cleared his throat loudly. “We thought you might need a rescue.”

Porthos was still in an ornery mood. “Do I _look_ like I need rescuin?” He demanded, snatching D’Artagnan’s pistol from the pouch at his side and shouldering past him. “Move aside. You comin or not?” D’Artagnan and Athos trailed Porthos’s long strides, content to let him lead.

“Do you know where Aramis is?” D’Artagnan called. Porthos shook his head.

“We was separated after our trial. He was sentenced to hard labor in the colonies, so I reckon the docks?”

“We thought you both would have escaped by now.”

“I had just finished picking the lock to my shackles and the cell when the guards came to check on us. Paul tried to distract them. Cost him his life, see?” A moment of rueful silence. “I managed to get out and tried to get the guards, but I didn’t before they’d killed ‘im. I’ve been wandering around tryin to find a way out," he cast one disdainful eye over his shoulder. "You two _rescuers_ remember how to get back to the surface? I was blindfolded," he gruffed. 

D'Artagnan cleared his throat of the lump still there and gestured to his partner. "Um... Athos?”

Athos still looked shocked. “I was a little preoccupied at the time," he pointed out softly. Porthos made a noise of exasperation in the back of his throat. D'Artagnan was still so giddy to see Porthos alive and relatively unharmed that he could only share a smile with Athos. Their joy did not go unnoticed. 

Porthos rolled his eyes. "Useless, the both of ya,” he grumbled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be coming soon because I'M excited about it. Drum roll please...


	7. Angels Caught in Fishing Nets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan, Athos and Porthos find their fourth. As expected, there are complications. Aramis and Porthos prove themselves brave, loyal fools. Athos is over-protective, and someone (guess who) has a knife pressed to his throat.

“Sure is crowded out here,” Porthos mumbled as they wandered the docks. He had procured a long cloak from one of the guards they had knocked out. It covered his face as they wove through the crowds. Six large ships sat in the harbor, milling about with sailors and merchants. D’Artagnan worried his lower lip.

“That’s a good sign. It means none of the ships have taken off yet. Everyone is still getting last minute provisions,” Athos said. His eyes scanned the wharf attentively. He had refused D'Artagnan's assistance walking, so it was a bit surprising when he managed to speed ahead of Porthos suddenly. He laid a hand on his brother's chest to halt him and tipped his head so that they locked eyes. “Porthos – I must know. Why did you and Aramis take responsibility for the destroyed tavern after what I did?”

Porthos's brows thundered. “Well, not as if we _planned_ on gettin killed for it. We thought we’d be able to talk ourselves outta too much trouble and…”

“But _why_?”

Porthos heaved a sigh. “I dunno. Instinct, I guess? Not as if we discussed it beforehand. We’ve been coverin for each other for six years, Athos. That kind of brotherhood doesn’t just… Go away. Not for us, at least,” Porthos shook his head. “Guess it was easy for you, though, huh?” Athos’s face fell.

“Porthos, I…”

“Are we here to find Aramis or not?” Porthos interrupted, voice husky, shoving past him. D’Artagnan cringed when Athos closed his eyes in momentary pain. He didn’t try to rekindle the conversation, however. They slunk after Porthos.

“There,” Athos suddenly murmured, pointing to a large ship at the edge of the docked boats. It was obviously a cargo ship, the lowered ramp creaked beneath the boots of sailors, merchants and the occasional businessman. Above the rigging, a Portuguese flag whipped in the breeze. “That must be it.”

 _The Defiance_ , D’Artagnan mouthed. It seemed fitting that Aramis should be imprisoned aboard that ship. “How are we getting on?” He asked.

“Follow me,” Porthos replied, ducking into the crowd. D’Artagnan followed until he was crouched beside Porthos behind the giant chains anchoring the ships to the dock. He gestured for them to huddle closer. Athos and D’Artagnan pressed their heads close.

“Alrigh, way I see it, the deck is too crowded to go that way. So, our only option is to crawl into the gun ports,” he pointed to the small tunnels at the ends of the ship which held the cannon mouths. “D’Artagnan, you’re skinny enough. Go in and see if you can find Aramis," D'Artagnan gave a resolute nod and began stripping himself of extra clothing layers. It would only impede his progress. "Here, take ma lock pick wit you…”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” someone coughed from behind them. “You look as if you’re searching for someone. Might I be of assistance?”

They all swirled. Porthos’s face broke into a large grin. “Aramis!”

Aramis, face hidden in the folds of a beggar’s cloak, smiled. “Porthos!” They embraced exuberantly. “Thank the heavens. I didn’t think I had the stamina to come and find you,” Aramis breathed, gesturing to his leg. The bandage wrapped around his stab wound was soggy with fresh blood. Porthos clucked.

“Nah, I’m good, ‘Mis. How’d you get out?”

Aramis rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Er… About that…” Then he noticed the other two and stopped. “Athos? What are _you_ doing here?”

“Apparently just taking up space,” Athos drawled. D’Artagnan laughed.

“Did _anyone_ need to be rescued?” He asked.

 _“You two_ were going to rescue _us?”_ Aramis asked, sounding dubious. Porthos snorted.

“My sentiments exactly. Had thoughts of grandeur, they did. Now, we should leave this place quick before we’re caught…”

“Um,” Aramis gulped, scanning the crowd worriedly. “There’s another reason I’m glad I found you here…”

The air split with the clang of gunshots. D’Artagnan jumped as the bullets chipped the stones so close to his toes that he felt the heat through his shoes. “There he is! The escaped prisoner!”

“Run!” Aramis hissed. The four of them bolted, bowling and jumping through the crowd like a small herd of horses. 

“Stop them! Robbers! Charlatans! Madmen!” The militia and sailors behind them shouted. They wove their way past the frightened people, in hot pursuit. D’Artagnan snatched his main gauche from behind him and threw. It nicked the hand of the man aiming his pistol at Porthos.

“This way!” Athos bellowed, snatching the back of his shirt and tugging him after Aramis and Porthos into a tight alley. They flattened against the walls, barely breathing.

“Where’d they go!?”

“Shut down the streets! Find them!” Their adversaries passed by them in flashes of fury and shouts. D’Artagnan exhaled a breath of relief, heart pounding. When their shouts had grown distant, Aramis went to one knee with a hiss of pain.

“Tore my stitches again,” he explained, touching his newly bleeding leg.

“You’re not the only one,” Athos groaned, hand pressed to his side. Aramis cringed. Porthos peered around the corner.

“Time to make a strategic retreat, methinks. Roof jumping?”

D’Artagnan snorted. While Porthos was adept at traveling the Parisian streets via the rooftops and decks of the buildings, the rest of them were sorely lacking in the same skill. “I don’t want to tempt fate with all the injuries around here,” he pointed out. “The river?”

“Oh, you think _a swim_ is gonna make it any better for the injuries? That’s saltwater. It’ll sting like Hell.”

“Then what’s your grand idea, Porthos?”

“Gimme a minute, youngling! I’m thinking!”

“We don’t _have_ a minute!”

“I have a plan,” Athos blurted. His pronouncement was met with the combined glares of his three friends. He snapped his jaw shut. 

“You’re the reason we’re in this mess in the first place,” Aramis hissed. “Besides, you were not even conscious twenty hours ago.” Athos closed his eyes briefly, but when they opened, they blazed with determination.

“I know. I know that I do not deserve to walk among you, but please, let me help you get out of this trouble I caused.” D’Artagnan remained silent. He was not angry with Athos at the moment. He left the decision with Aramis and Porthos. They were both quiet for a long span of moments. Finally, Aramis gave a dismissive wave of the hand.

“What are you thinking?”

“Aramis," Athos began, picking up command as if it weighed nothing on his heart. "Do you see that hanging pot over there?” The marksman craned his neck around the corner. Settled along the wall outside were several buildings which held dingy, sloping apartments. Above one of the merchants stands, a long string held pots of red, blooming carnations. A few militia men were gathered in a tight circle beneath it.

“Rather hard to miss. Should I shoot it?”

Athos nodded as Porthos passed over D’Artagnan’s stolen pistol. “Shoot them all. Then, D’Artagnan, do you see the clothesline?” It fluttered across the street from the flowers. A nod. “Use your knives. Cut it. When the soldiers are distracted, we run for the forest,” a nod toward the edge of town, quite a distance away. It would be a long sprint. “I’ll cover you all.”

Aramis gave an exaggerated sigh, leveling his eyes just above the barrel of the pistol. “As usual, your plan involves me doing all the work.”

“Hey! Who do you think is gonna have to carry you outta here with that limp?” Porthos demanded. Athos cringed. Aramis nodded thoughtfully.

D’Artagnan unsheathed the dagger in his left boot, swiveled it experimentally in his fingers. He squinted at the forest, a hard knot settling in his chest. That would be a long way for Athos to run unaided. He turned to fix his mentor with a firm look. “Athos, you’d better be right behind us,” he warned. “We’re all of us going to escape this place. Right?”

Athos pressed a fist to his heart and dipped his chin. “I swear. Ready? Three, two, one… Now!” Despite the number of times D’Artagnan heard the violent crack of a firearm a day, he still flinched when the sound echoed off the streets. Several vendors and civilians nearby shrieked as the flowerpots exploded into bits of dirt, root and ceramic debris.

The militia men gave a start at the noise. “Over there!”

He let his knife fly; and stifled a laugh when the damp sheets tumbled from the line right into the crowd, eliciting more shrieks of surprise and frustrated curses. He did not have time to snicker at the chaos before Porthos was shoving him from behind.

“Move! Move now!” He ordered; Aramis secured to his back. The feel of his blade was a comforting weight in his palm as he fought their way through the crowd. His sword flashed around them in a defensive circle, arcing, flying, a whip and flag and snake all at once.

“Halt, you!” Without turning his head, he heard another resounding crack, and the man running at them collapsed with a cry of pain. He smirked. Athos’s aim didn’t seem to be negatively affected by his injury either.

 _Almost there,_ they were just at the edge of the forest now. The cobblestone turned to dirt as the town faded behind them. At his back, Porthos panted and gasped for breath. Suddenly, there was a blur to his left. “Halt!” D'Artagnan grunted as something heavy and hot rammed into his side from the left. He and his attacker went sprawling into the dirt, a tangle of limbs and daggers. 

“D’Artagnan!”

“Keep going!” D’Artagnan shouted between gritted teeth, as he tried to flip his attacker over. The other man only settled his weight firm on D’Artagnan’s back. He dug a knee hard into his kidney, and _wrenched_ his arm behind his back, sending shooting agony up his arm to his shoulder. D’Artagnan gasped for breath.

“Excuse me,” a familiar voice growled from above. D’Artagnan glanced up. Porthos, as was his custom, hadn’t done what he’d been told. He stood over the two men, D’Artagnan’s sword a needle point at the other man’s throat. “That’s our friend you’ve got there.”

“Break his arm and we’ll break your face,” Aramis added cheerily from over his shoulder. Their protectiveness made waves of affectionate warmth settle in his stomach.

It was quickly replaced with fear when a sharp dagger was pressed to the back of his neck. “How about I slit his throat instead?”

Porthos growled. “Do it and I’ll have your head.”

“But first,” Aramis leveled his pistol. “Your eye.” The fingers at his neck trembled a bit. D’Artagnan swallowed.

“A deal, then. I know you don’t want to see him die, or else you would have abandoned him here already. I give you my word no harm will come to him or your other comrade if you give yourselves up without any more fuss.”

“No!” Damn it. They had Athos now too. He was dragged over by two other men, hunched over slightly and breathing hard as he pressed a hand to his side. If D’Artagnan didn’t know him better, he would think that the militiamen were more holding him up than restraining him. “I’ll not watch them die for a crime they didn’t commit!”

“They admitted to it!” The man holding D’Artagnan cried, sounding exasperated.

“That’s true,” Aramis ceded apologetically. “In our defense, we didn’t think you’d want to hang one of us and send the other to the colonies.”

“What’s it going to be then, mates? Your friends or you?”

Porthos and Aramis exchanged a meaningful glance. “Some rescuers you turned out to be,” Porthos mumbled as he allowed Aramis to slide from his back. He threw the sword to the ground, raised his hands pacifically.

“No!” D’Artagnan hissed. His heart skipped a beat. He thrashed desperately, stopped only when the dagger bit into the soft flesh of his neck. “Don’t do this! Porthos, Aramis, _run!_ Get out of here!”

Aramis’s mouth perked at the edges. “All for one,” he reminded him. He glared when one of the militia approached him to snatch the pistol from his limp fingers. “You swear you’ll release them? In the name of the Almighty?” He demanded.

“If it makes you feel better, yes.”

“Hey!” Porthos hissed when he was promptly tackled to the ground, both arms wrenched behind his back and secured with rope. “I’m not a damn animal! Gentle!” Aramis’s knees were kicked out from beneath him, and the way his expression twisted in pain made sent a shudder of rage through him.

“Ugh! No! I won’t let you do this!” He shouted.

“Leave them alone, you brutes!” Athos yelled, struggling feebly.

“Would you let it go, son?” One of his captors grunted, tightening his grip. “You seem like a decent soldier. These two half-breeds aren’t worth dying over.” Athos’s face froze over at that.

“You’re wrong,” he said, with the chilliest fury D’Artagnan had ever seen. Yet his eyes were on their friends. “They are worth _everything_.”

“And _don’t_ call us half-breeds,” Porthos growled. “We’re not dogs.”

Some of the weight lifted from D’Artagnan’s back. He tried to shift up; but was quickly pushed back down. “You’re getting ready to die like a dog,” one of the militiamen grabbed a handful of Porthos’s curls, yanked his head up to stare at him indifferently. He jabbed a thumb at Aramis. “While this one works like a dog in a sugar field.”

“Can I be executed instead, then? Extreme heat and deprivation isn’t good for my skin care routine…” Aramis inquired, sounding bored. The guard next to him gave him a savage kick in the stomach. Aramis doubled over, heaving for breath.

D’Artagnan growled. It wasn’t the first time he had seen his friends mistreated, but to know that they were doing this for him… It was almost too much to bear. His eyes stung with hot tears of rage and helplessness. _There must be something that I can do… It can’t end like this!_

Athos lunged forward with a primal snarl. “Touch them again and I’ll…”

“Take their friends out into the forest and tie them to a tree. They’ll get out eventually, but _after_ justice has been served,” the captain commanded.

D’Artagnan was hauled to his feet roughly. The guard behind him still had his arm curved awkwardly behind his back. Even moving sent flares of pain into his shoulder, which was probably dislocated. He couldn’t care less. He wriggled. “No!”

“Wait! Let me say goodbye to them!” Athos pleaded. “Please. They have only ever shown me mercy and compassion. Let me repay it now.”

“Looks like he’s forgettin the time we shot a watermelon off ‘is head for extra coin,” Porthos chuckled breathlessly.

“He _would_ forget that,” Aramis agreed in a wheeze.

“Fine,” the captain groaned, rolling his eyes. He gestured for Athos to be released, and the man slumped forward with a small gasp of pain. “Make it quick. We’ve all things to do today, you know.” Athos nodded and knelt in front of Porthos, who shook his head.

“You’d better go say goodbye to ‘Mis. _I’m_ still angry with you.”

Athos pressed a gentle hand to his cheek, eyes wide. “Porthos. This is all my fault. I am sorry,” he breathed. Porthos sobered.

“Funny. I always thought Aramis, or the pup, would be the death of me…”

“I thought it would be me, too,” Aramis agreed.

“Never you. Never like this,” Porthos glanced at him, flashed a lopsided smile. “You’ll tell everyone I died like a warrior, huh? In battle and all that?”

Athos shrugged, unsmiling. “I plan on drowning my grief in wine -and then the Seine- after your execution. D’Artagnan?”

He shrugged as much as he could with a grown man sitting on his shoulders. “Same.”

“I guess no one will ever know what happened to us then.”

Porthos nodded. Smirked. “Guess not.”

They sprang into action a second after that. Porthos threw his head back, landing a knock against his captor’s crotch that ended with a resounding _pop_. The flattened man screamed and dropped to his knees. The small knife that Athos had slipped out of Porthos’s shirt, part of his pick-pocketing supplies, glinted as Athos slipped it free of his shirt. He jabbed it into the Achilles Heel of the closest adversary.

The man crumpled in a spurt of blood and screams.

“D’Artagnan!” Athos called, swiveling on one knee. He snatched D’Artagnan’s sword from the ground and tossed it. D’Artagnan caught it in the hand not restrained; and jabbed it behind him. The satisfying squelch of blood mingled with the militiamen’s pained grunt as he collapsed backward.

“Pistol please!” Aramis requested, as he surged to his feet and flung himself atop the nearest man, limp as a sack of potatoes. D’Artagnan cut the ropes binding his wrists and handed him said weapon.

“You alright?” He asked worriedly, noticing the unusual pallor of his friend’s face.

“Are you joking?” Aramis asked, with a laugh. “This is what I live for!”

“Stop! Surrender or…” The Captain lunged forward, socked Athos in the face and leveled a pistol at his forehead. D’Artagnan didn’t have time to blink or feel fear before Athos was up again. With a roar, he grabbed the barrel of the pistol in one hand and tipped it up. The bullet exploded, uselessly, into the air.

“You fool!” Athos hissed furiously. He snatched the pistol from the other man’s grip and punched him with it. The captain staggered backward, trying to ward off the sudden barrage of blows that Athos littered on him from above. “Don’t-” _punch_ “ever-” _smack_ “use me-” _kick_ “to leverage-” _punch_ “my brothers-” a savage headbutt that sent the captain’s eyes rolling back in his head. He rubbed his temple. “Again,” he finished.

D’Artagnan smiled. “Gentlemen,” Aramis called, struggling to his feet. “We should go before reinforcements arrive, hmm?”

“Good plan!” Porthos gasped, snatching him into his grip.

D’Artganna wrapped an arm around Athos’s shoulder, letting him lean against him. “Come on Athos. Let’s go home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm kind of just naming my chapters after poetry now.


	8. Sometimes Angels Can't Help But Be Devils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys escape danger in various stages of bumps and bruisery. Athos finally gets to that apology he's been practicing and its beautiful. Porthos was almost burnt at the stake, D'Artagnan is tired of their shit and Aramis is a bully. All things we already know.

The horses, miraculously, were still in the place where D’Artagnan had tied them. “Thank you,” he said to the sky in a desperate murmur. “Thank you, thank you, _thank you!”_ Sagging with exhaustion, he reluctantly allowed Athos to lean away from him so that the older man could tumble against a tree. Porthos collapsed to his knees, gently lowering Aramis to the soft forest floor.

He then flung himself unto his back, gasping for breath. D’Artagnan sunk against his horse’s legs tiredly. For a long span of breathless moments, they simply sat on the ground, gulping air and letting their hearts stop racing. When the moment ended, they each looked up, and smiled.

Porthos barked an exuberant laugh, victory shining in his eyes. “Ah ah ha ha! Execute _that!_ Who’s the dog now?!” he whooped. D’Artagnan laughed as well, blood singing in his veins. They had escaped. They had escaped. They had _escaped._

“Did you see that one up front when the carnation pot dropped on his head? Priceless!” He snickered, mind flashing back to the comical astonishment and fear on the faces of civilians and militiamen alike.

“No, no, when D’Art snapped the clothesline. I ain’t seen anything so funny in years!” Porthos guffawed, slapping his knees.

“And that _aim_ ,” Aramis giggled, slapping D'Artagnan on the calf. “I couldn‘t have done it better myself.” High praise coming from a man who could shoot a fly mid-air. D’Artagnan beamed.

“Are you joking? Aramis, when you appeared out of nowhere behind us, _I nearly died.”_

“You aren’t the only one,” Athos chuckled, but his eyes were twinkling with mirth.

“Ah, ah, stop making me laugh! Its hurts,” Aramis pleaded, leaning heavily on Porthos’s uninjured arm. He looked up with eyes shining with pride and energy. “That has got to be, by far, the greatest escape we have _ever_ pulled together. Well done, Musketeers,” he congratulated.

“We’ll have a story to tell Serge back at the Garrison!” D’Artagnan laughed. Wobbling slightly, he pushed himself to his feet and started to untie the horses. A moment later, Porthos joined him, both still snickering over their good fortunes.

“Not to mention the Captain!” Aramis added. He tipped his chin back so that he could stare affectionately at Athos. “What even gave you that idea, Athos? ‘Let me say goodbye.’ Even I was confused for a moment.”

Athos gave a one-shouldered shrug. “We tried it at the siege of Mantuban, remember? It didn’t work then, but I had a feeling it would work now," he said. D'Artgnan didn't even have the energy needed to snort loud enough, but Porthos expressed dubiousness in his place. 

“And you were out of options," he clarified. Athos didn't deny it. He merely ran a hand over his curls. 

“And that, yes."

“Well, it was a good plan," Porthos allowed. He pushed himself to one elbow, propping his cheek in one hand. "I wouldn’t have been able to reach my knife with my hands tied,” he said. Athos dipped his head modestly.

“It was a team effort,” he demurred.

“Says the man who grabbed the barrel of a pistol,” Aramis said in a mock whisper. “Crazy, just crazy.”

“We’re rubbin off on him, I think,” D’Artagnan agreed, shaking his head. His horse butted a large head against his chest. He stroked her muzzle. “Alright girl, I’m eager to be off too. Everyone ready?”

“Past time,” Porthos agreed, pushing himself unsteadily to his feet. He stretched his arms above his head with a long groan. Aramis managed to get himself upright using one leg and balanced precariously until Athos reached out to steady him. "How mad will Cap'n Treveille be when he hears we was arrested again, y'think?" Porthos continued, sounding anything but concerned.

"Oh, he can't be too angry," Aramis dismissed with his usual debonair. "After all, it wasn't as if they tried to burn you at the stake again." Porthos rubbed his chin thoughtfully and nodded. Aramis hopped over to his horse one one foot like a child. A handkerchief landed at D'Artagnan's feet as Porthos rifled about Athos's saddlebag. 

"Hungry," he muttered. "Don't you have any food, Athos?" 

D'Artagnan sighed. _I should have remained a farmer._ " _That's_ the criteria we're basing this from? Being burnt at the stake?" He demanded as they all huddled against their respective mounts. "And _how_ are you hungry?"

"I did more work than you."

"He has a point."

D'Artagnan forced a sore leg into the stirrup. Then stopped as he noticed that Athos remained back. He was watching them bicker and converse and shift through his things with a pained expression. _Damn it. I forgot about his wound._ Recalling how grouchy and unwilling Athos had been to accept help however, he only took _one_ cautious step forward. 

“Athos? What is it? Aren’t you coming?” He asked. Aramis and Porthos turned, frowning.

“I’d be honored,” Athos said with a tremulous smile. “But there is something I must do first.” With that, he promptly fell to one knee before them. Aramis and Porthos recoiled as if he had attacked them, eyes wide. D’Artagnan was impressed.

When they saw that no attack or trick was forthcoming, Aramis and Porthos inched closer, wary. “Athos?”

Athos’s voice shook as he bowed his head. “I won’t even ask your forgiveness. I don’t deserve it, but I will say that there are no words that can sufficiently convey my shame. Not only for the countless drunken escapades and weary nights and wounds I have inflicted upon you over the years. I am also sorry for the way I handled it. You must know that when I sent you away, I only did so because I thought you’d be better off without me.”

Porthos’s eyes flashed. “Which is why we never told you in the first place!”

“I know," Athos exhaled a full-body breath. "I know. I am a fool. When I thought you had perished in that prison,” he looked up at Porthos and shuddered. “It was as if the sun had dropped from the sky. I don’t know what possessed me to believe I could ever walk on this Earth without you two by my side. I could not be sorrier if I tried.” Aramis and Porthos exchanged a glance. _Good speech,_ D’Artagnan mouthed to the kneeling supplicant.

“Can’ t say I’m not angry at you still,” Porthos decided, extending a hand. The former Comte took it with a shy half-smile, allowed himself to be pulled roughly back to his feet. “But your apology is very pretty,” an impish smile.

“I made him practice it,” D’Artagnan informed them.

“Still, you ever, _ever_ send us away again Athos,” Porthos jabbed a finger into his chest. “This time we’ll stay gone. And Aramis will wanna forgive you, so I’ll make sure of it. We handle all things together, got it? Don’t forget that,” Athos dipped his head in acknowledgement.

“I understand. Aramis?”

Aramis gave a rueful half shrug. “As Porthos said, I forgive easily. To me, you’ve been forgiven for years, _mon ami,”_ he jabbed an elbow into Porthos’s ribs _. “_ We owe you an apology as well. We never should have hidden the truth from you.”

“Not only that,” Porthos agreed, gracious even in his ire. “We’re sorry we… " He gulped. "That we aren’t enough, aye? Enough to chase away your demons and give you some peace. We’d give anything to be half the brothers to you as you are to us.”

“Oh Porthos,” Athos moaned. “Don’t you know? You have repeatedly, every second since the day we met, been my salvation. You _are_ enough. More than enough.”

“But you still want to die…” Aramis argued sadly.

“Cruel words said in a drunken stupor, Aramis. Sometimes, I regret the mistakes and follies I have committed in my life so much I can scarcely breathe, but to leave you behind? I’d be the loneliest soul the heavens -or Hell – had ever seen. No. I want to _live_. I want to live for The Musketeers, for France _,_ for _you_.”

Porthos rolled his eyes affectionately. “We love you too, ‘Thos.”

“I know,” Athos closed his eyes, as if in prayer. “I am sorely aware of how unworthy I am of your affection, _but I know.”_

“I must also apologize, my friend,” Aramis shifted feet. “I’m the one who did this to you,” he gestured to the wound at Athos’s side. “We always tried to escape these days with you unharmed, but I…”

“Saved my life,” Athos interrupted. “If I understand correctly,” a nod from Porthos and D’Artagnan verified it, but Aramis still looked apprehensive. Athos squeezed his shoulder. “I forgive you, if you need to hear it, but know that I believe I owe you a debt of gratitude, as usual,” he stepped forward, gently ran a finger over Aramis’s scratched face.

“I, on the other hand, have much for which to atone. I’m almost considering joining you in mass. Will it scar?”

Aramis shrugged. “Only faintly.”

Athos’s hand dropped like a stone, his face paling. “What will you tell the heartbroken women of Paris?” He whispered.

Aramis grinned impishly. “I will tell them that the scars are from wrestling a wild wolf in the dead of night for the sake of my sleeping comrades. They will love me all the more for it.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Athos said affectionately. He then turned to Porthos, placed a tender hand on his arm, just beneath the bandage. “And you?”

“Ah, you know I’ve been beaten up worse than this. I’ll tell Treveille I got into a spot o’ trouble over a game of cards…” Porthos began, as easily as if he had been asked about the weather. Athos’s back straightened at the reminder of their Captain. He shook his head quickly.

“ _No_. Not this time. I will take responsibility before the Captain, no, don’t argue,” he held up a hand. “You two have borne the brunt of my sins for far too long. It is my turn to shield you from harm now.” Porthos sent a glance at Aramis, who merely arched a brow and shrugged. Porthos sighed.

“Guess the puppy was right after all.” _Well, it’s about time._ D’Artagnan cupped his ear dramatically.

“I’m sorry, could you say that again? Louder, maybe?” He gasped.

“Alright, alright!” Porthos hooked an arm around his neck, dragging him into a one-armed hug. “We’re sorry to you too D’Artagnan. We should have listened to ya from the beginning,” he assured him.

“I believe I owe you my life, actually. _Again,”_ Athos clarified.

“We know this day hasn’t been any easier on you, and if not _for you,_ we’d be a lot worse off. It took a lot of mettle to get our heads outta our asses.” Porthos continued, rubbing his large knuckles against D’Artagnan’s scalp. D’Artagnan yelped and struggled from the suffocating embrace.

“You’re forgiven! Forgiven! _Ouch,_ Porthos!” He yelped. Porthos released him with a laugh, and he stumbled right into Aramis. The other man merely squeezed his shoulder, for which D’Artagnan was grateful. “I’m just glad you don’t hate me anymore… Do you?” He grumbled, smoothing down his wild curls.

“No more than usual,” Aramis assured him, with a squeeze of his shoulder. “Now, is anyone in immediate need of my attention? Athos, how’s your wound? Were you hit?”

Their esteemed leader, watching the abundant forgiveness with twinkling eyes, blinked at the summons. The soft smile that had taken over his face made D’Artagnan’s heart clench. As if Aramis’s words had reminded him, he swayed precariously. Three hands flashed out at once, latching unto various articles of clothing to keep him from toppling over.

“No, he’s just an idiot,” D’Artagnan reported, lest there be any doubt. “He has a fever. His injury has taken a toll on him, he wouldn’t listen to me when I told him to rest and now he’s sick.”

“Probably still goin through withdrawal, too. We should get home,” Porthos clucked, giving Athos’s shirt a quick tug. He pitched forward into their respective embrace as easily as if he weighed nothing. “Think you can ride, Athos?”

Athos glared. “I’m perfectly capable…!”

“He’ll ride with me,” Aramis decided. He dug into his medicine bag, still hanging over his horse’s flank. He brought out a small vial, held it up in the mid-day sun to watch the contents mix and smear against the glass. “Here, this should work like a mild sedative. You can sleep on the way.” Athos’s face scrunched in disgust. Aramis laughed. “Don’t argue with me, Comte De La Fere, I’m a healer.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Hush. Drink. Are you dizzy? No, don’t try to speak,” Athos rolled his eyes and downed the liquid. Then began to gag and cough as if he had just swallowed needles. Aramis took that chance to bully him unto his horse.

“Still feels bad about shootin ya,” Porthos explained in a mock whisper. “Let him mother ya, huh?”

Athos sighed exaggeratedly. “Aramis, I _do_ feel faint,” he supposed, sounding anything but faint. Aramis swung himself behind Athos, careful of his leg, and patted his shoulder.

“It’s the medicine, _mon ami._ Lay back…” He pulled Athos’s head to rest against his shoulder. Athos huffed indignantly. “There. Was that so hard? I swear, Athos, you never let us take care of you.”

“Hypocrite.”

“I am more than happy to be spoiled when needs must. I just prefer my nurses to be rather better endowed than you three lovely gentlemen.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “Don’t know whether to be offended or flattered.”

“Don’t think about it,” Athos suggested sleepily. “M gonna rest my eyes, Aramis, alrigh?”

“Alright, Athos.”

“Don’t take responsibility for the mess. ‘M going too.”

“Yes, Athos.”

“Don’t get lost either.”

“ _Athos,”_ Aramis chuckled. “Rest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more short epilogue, then we're finished.


	9. They Turned Around and I saw It was an Angel Instead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treveille has too much fun torturing our boys, D'Artagnan left the farm for a reason and Athos has one more trick up his sleeve.

_Epilogue: Two Weeks Later_

Aramis was already slumped at their favorite courtyard table when D’Artagnan slunk into the garrison late that afternoon. It had been an easy, sweltering summer day. Most of the Garrison’s occupants were out enjoying themselves in the city, catching any sort of amusement before nightfall.

The sun cast long maroon shadows on the ground. D’Artagnan plopped into the seat beside Aramis. The marksman had his arms crossed, legs spread as he leaned against the table, head tipped back, and hat pulled over his face.

“If I never look upon another horse again, it’ll be too soon,” D’Artagnan groaned. Aramis made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. D’Artagnan poked his shoulder. “Rough day?” He asked.

Aramis let his hat flutter into his lap. Blinked at D’Artagnan owlishly in reply. It was that moment that Porthos arrived, stomach grumbling louder than a thunderstorm. The large man settled into a seat across from them, with an affectionate squeeze of Aramis’s shoulder and playful tug at D’Artagnan’s hair.

“’Aven’t seen you two troublemakers in near a week now,” he said. D’Artagnan nodded. It had been an odd week of punishment following their return, brief time of fever (Athos) re-stitching (Aramis) and painful muscle therapy (Porthos), recuperation and confessional before The Captain. He had been kept so busy that D’Artagnan had only caught glimpses of the others over the past week. So quick that they hadn’t even had time to exchange words before they were off again.

“Remind me again why Treveille punished _us_ for this whole mess?” He asked, smooshing his chin against his palm.

Porthos was absentmindedly rubbing his growling stomach, looking put-upon. “We lied to him too, technically. Coulda had us Court Martialed,” he grunted, in a tone that suggested that this would been the preferable choice. D’Artagnan pressed his forehead to the table. Moaned in appreciation when Aramis gripped the back of his neck and massaged the stiff muscles there.

“I’d rather hang than clean anymore horse shit or empty out any more latrines,” he told them. Aramis chuckled softly.

“Weren’t you a farmer?” He asked.

“I hated it then too.”

Porthos plunked his elbows on the table, laid his chin in his crossed arms. “What’s he ‘ave Athos doin?”

D’Artagnan raised his head. Mourned the loss of warmth as Aramis retreated his hand and swirled around to face them. “He made the Comte De La Fere attend all of the balls, banquets and political gatherings in Treveille’s place.”

“Harsh! Athos hates those parties,” Porthos chuckled. “Can you imagine 'im dancing, sipping champagne and engaging in gossip with high end, obnoxious statesmen all night? He has to cater to ‘em and scrape around for more money so the Garrison can get that guard tower fixed, eh? He’s probably losin his mind.”

“I’d be happy to go in his stead,” Aramis growled. “Treveille sends me to be in the service of Sir Renald of England.”

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to demand who the hell that was, but Porthos’s resounding snort answered the question easily enough. “Didn’t he catch you with his wife that one time and now he hates your guts?”

Aramis crossed his arms huffily. “Oh, he hates a great deal more than that. He’s treated me like a servant all afternoon. I had to polish the boots of his guards; and feed his bloodthirsty mutts. I’m lucky I didn’t lose my hand.” Porthos slapped his knees, roaring with laughter. 

D’Artagnan hid a smile behind his hand as he pretended to scratch his chin. “Guess the lady wasn’t worth it, huh?”

Aramis wasn’t fooled. He glowered at them each from beneath the brim of his hat, the smolder in his eyes promising retribution. “Oh, madame Charlotte was a perfectly beautiful and fine woman. Her husband is a sour-breathed, ignorant pig. If he makes one more reference to cock-standing in my presence… Stop laughing, Porthos! What’s your punishment?”

“Ooh,” Porthos snickered as he swiped away a stray tear. “Your God _does_ have a sense of humor, ‘Mis. I’m accompanying the King’s Cousin on his hunts. The man can’t shoot for shit, and he insists that I go and check on all the birds he never kills. We’ve been out all day, no food, no break. Just watching him shoot at air and running to go check the grass for more air.”

“I’ll trade you,” D’Artagnan begged.

“Fine. I’d gladly shovel horse shit. At least the horses are good company.”

“Is Aramis really so bad, Porthos?” Athos teased as he strode past them, a bottle of expensive cider and four plates of warm bread, steaming chicken and olives balanced precariously in his arms. He bowed low. “Gentlemen, I have brought an elixir which might ease your aches. Food and drink, respectively.”

D’Artagnan’s mouth watered. He reached out and took the bottle of cider excitedly as Porthos collected the plates, moaning eagerly. “Where’d you get this?” Aramis asked.

Athos swooped into his seat across from D’Artagnan. “There were leftovers from tonight’s festivities. I nearly committed mass murder, damn the execution that would followed; but abstained only so I could bring you all this morsel as continued recompense of my sins,” ah.

So the gifts of guilt had been extended to all of them then. D’Artagnan had assumed so. He had continuously found bits of food or leather or his clothes newly washed when he returned to his apartment at night. Porthos dug into the chicken with relish, loudly sucking the juice from his fingers.

“You should atone for your sins more often. Never been this well fed before!” He laughed.

Athos’s eyes twinkled. “I shall endeavor to be more mindful of your appetite and my vices.”

The bread was warm and fluffy in his mouth, the cheese oily in the heat but still flavorful enough to make him lick his fingers afterward. He wondered if he would be able to save some for Constance… “How did simpering with the elite go?” He asked, words muffled by a full mouth.

Athos was staring longingly at the cider. “I hate them all.”

“Tell us something we don’t know,” Porthos suggested.

Aramis fanned himself with his hat, popping an olive into his mouth. He helpfully slid the cider closer to Athos. The other man just shook his head and slid it back. Aramis shrugged. “You may have company tomorrow,” he rolled his eyes. “Sir ignorant, foul-mouthed pig of England has been invited to the King’s party. I’ll be the righteous sufferer acting like a servant in the corner,” Aramis told him. Athos steepled his fingers together. Despite that, D’Artagnan noticed the tiny shakes of his hands.

What was wrong _now?_

“Indeed? Well, I’ll be the secretly murderous but outwardly polite shadow skulking in the back. Mayhap we’ll meet in the middle and remain in misery together.”

Aramis raised his cup in a silent salute. “Suffering shared is suffering halved.”

“How long until Treveille just court marshals us and gets it over with?” D’Artagnan groaned.

“You four are far too valuable to France for me to watch you hang,” Treveille replied from above them. He leaned against the balcony railing, his face half shadowed in the dim light. He gave them a courteous nod, a smirk playing at the edges of his mouth. “Besides, you’d never learn your lesson that way.”

D’Artagnan raised one greasy hand. “Captain, I beg to be executed.”

“Denied. I thought you all would like to know that the tavern owner Erie was very well pleased with the sum of money I sent him. He sends his thanks and the charges against all of you have been dropped. I’d like it to be known that though you may be legally innocent of any wrong-doing, I still see you for the womanizing, drunken, doe-eyed and swindling criminals you are.”

“You’re a wise man, Captain,” Aramis assured him.

“Wait, why am I doe-eyed?” D’Artagnan demanded.

Treveille arched a brow. “How did you know I was talking about you?” Porthos and Aramis choked on snickers as D’Artagnan gaped, mouth opening and closing but no reply forthwith. Athos smiled. “I bid you goodnight gentlemen. Don’t forget your duties in the morning, and no trading, D’Artagnan and Porthos.”

“Captain, please!” D’Artagnan cried.

“Have mercy!” Porthos agreed.

“It was all Athos’s fault anyway!” Aramis shouted, their pleas coming out at once and thus sounding as if a garbled mass of grunts and cries of pain. Treveille chortled and wandered back into his office, waving away their misery with inhumane amusement. The four of them heaved a sigh in unison, slumping into their seats.

“I feel as if I should apologize again,” Athos began, but Porthos nudged his shoulder.

“Don’t, Athos. There was plenty of wrong to go around. Besides, you ‘aven’t stopped apologizin since we got back. It’s gettin on my nerves now.”

“There’s only so many well-worded, eloquent pleas for forgiveness I can take, sadly,” Aramis added, not sounding sad at all.

“ _I_ didn’t do anything wrong. I oughta get an award, practically, for making you stubborn asses come to your senses,” D’Artagnan grumbled, popping an olive into his mouth. He then promptly choked on it when Aramis’s hand snapped out and began to knead his side while Porthos grabbed his ankle beneath the table and scribbled fingers under his knee.

“Ah! S-stop it! I take it back! I take it back!” He yelped between laughs, trying to dive from his seat to escape the tickling.

“We _thought_ so,” Aramis and Porthos harrumphed in unison, releasing him.

Athos placed his hands on the table and stood. “If you can bear it, I have a final gift,” he invited. Porthos looked up hopefully.

“Dessert?” He hoped. Athos gave an apologetic shake of the head.

“My luck only extends so far, I’m afraid. If you’ll follow me,” with that he swiveled on a heel and marched toward his apartments. Snatching the remaining morsels from the table, the rest of them followed him up the stairs to his private apartments.

“Athos, you _can’t_ be comfortable up here. It’s stifling,” D’Artagnan gasped when they filed into the apartments. At every breath, D’Artagnan felt as if he were inhaling dust and heat. He snatched Aramis’s hat from his head and used it to fan himself, hoping to stir the stagnant air to wakefulness. Aramis shoved him.

“It isn’t good for your wound,” he agreed as Porthos pressed a stone against the open door. D’Artagnan wrestled to open the grime encrusted window, and Aramis instinctively started to shake out Athos’s blankets. Their leader watched the proceedings patiently, too experienced to attempt stopping them before they’d finished making sure he wouldn’t suffocate in his own apartments during the night.

“Alrigh’,” Porthos breathed when they had finished. He grabbed the nearest chair, swung it around and plopped into it. “Now what’s this last gift? And it’d better be the last one, too, eh? Save some apology for when the rest of us mess up.”

“So for Aramis, that means tomorrow when he finds his way into the bed of Mademoiselle Charlotte,” D’Artagnan teased, upturning the empty bucket Athos normally used to help cure him of hangovers. He sat at the edge of it. Aramis threw himself unto Athos’s bed, ankles crossed.

“Pelea conmigo después,” Aramis informed him. D’Artagnan arched a brow at Porthos for translation, but the big man just shrugged.

Athos walked over to the large trunk at the foot of his bed. D’Artagnan watched him, gut tightening. That box, known mainly as _Monsieur le Vin_ by various members of the regiment, held years’ worth of expensive vintages. Athos stood above it, shoulders hunched, and inhaled slowly. 

He glanced at Porthos, to see his expression scraped clean of emotion. But he watched Athos closely, also concerned. Then, moving as if he were afraid of what would be inside, Athos quickly unlatched the trunk and flung the top open.

D’Artagnan leaned forward; and inhaled sharply. It was empty. “Wait, what happened to all your alcohol?” He demanded, aghast. There had been vintages close to seventy years old in that trunk. Easily worth four months wages. Others had been from Pinon or signed as wedding gifts from various Nobles to the former Comte.

Athos exhaled a slow breath. “I sold it all.”

“You _what?!”_ They gasped in unison.

Aramis sat bolt upright. Porthos’s chair screeched as he stood, striding over to peer deeper into the trunk. He rubbed his eyes, as if he might open them again and discover he was dreaming. D’Artagnan felt the same. Athos leaned against the wall, eyes shadowed and tired, but sure.

“Athos, what the hell were you thinking?” Aramis moaned. “How long has it been since you’ve had a drink? Look, you’re already shaking,” he pointed accusingly to Athos’s trembling fingers. “Your body craves it. For God’s sakes, man… Those vintages are some of the only reminders you have of Pinon left. Who’d you sell them too? We may be able to buy some back…”

“I don’t want to buy them back, Aramis,” Athos interrupted sharply. His eyes softened. “Say it. Ask me never to drink again, and I will do so. My… _Addiction_ has caused enough pain.”

“Your addiction is potentially keeping you alive,” D’Artagnan argued. Athos shrugged.

“If the choice is between my brothers or the bottle, then it is no choice at all.”

This declaration was followed by an astonished silence. At length, it was Porthos who broke it. Exhaling a shuddering breath, he covered his face with a large palm and reached out a hand to lean heavily against the wall. “Ah _hell_ , Athos,” he whispered, voice wavering.

Athos took a hesitant step in his direction. “Porthos, wait, I did not mean to upset you…” He began. Porthos waved him off with a watery chuckle. His meaning spun in D’Artagna’s mind, a loop of complete surprise. He had expected Athos to offer them the wines in his trunk, but not to discard them. Not to… Athos was willing to stop drinking?

Permanently?

For _them?_

Hot tears stung his eyes. Porthos shook his head as Athos laid a hand on his back, struggling to regain his composure. “These are good tears, you fool. I just…” he turned, studied Athos with tearful brown eyes and snorted. “You don’t even understand, do you? For you to sacrifice the drink, even if it kills ya, for a gutter-rat kid like me… Never thought I’d mean so much to anyone.”

Athos’s brows vanished beneath his bangs and he really was an imbecile, wasn’t he? It was oddly endearing. D’Artagnan swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I’m just a semi-useless farm-boy from Gascony. What reason do you have to care about my opinion?” He asked. Athos stared at him for a long moment, seemingly coming to terms with their obvious difference in station and class.

“These are the reasons we cannot ask this of you, Athos,” Aramis spoke up. He stood, fluid as the wind. He walked over to lay a hand on Athos’s shoulder. “Not only could sudden and complete withdrawal kill you, but… We are not worth all this,” he gestured to the empty trunk. “Not because of your birthright, _mon ami_ , but because you are _a good man._ Brave and modest and loyal to a fault. You do not deserve to live with your demons just to lessen our worry at night, not when we cost you so much already…”

“Enough!” Athos suddenly snapped. He grabbed Porthos’s shoulder and swung him around to face him, slapped Aramis’s hand from his shoulder. He stood in the middle of the room as if preparing for battle, arms crossed, feet set in a fighting stance, eyes hard as flint. “I will only say this once, my brothers, so heed my words. There is no one, no one _in my entire life_ , who has held the regard you three have in my soul. Do you understand me?” He demanded, with a voice that made D’Artagnan straighten at attention.

“Whatever inadequacies you believe you have as my brothers are nonexistent. I have never cared where you come from,” he sent a pointed look at Porthos.

“How we met,” a thin smile at D’Artagnan.

“Or even how much trouble you may cause me,” he and Aramis exchanged a rueful look.

“You are worth every agony, every discomfort, every demon because you are my family. I desire no other. You cannot tell me what you are worthy of, for I have already determined that you are worth everything to me,” by this time, Athos’s face had turned red amidst his rant. He ended it with a huff and crossed arms. “So shut up. I’m getting sober.”

D’Artagnan giggled hysterically. Porthos sniffled and swiped away a stray tear and Aramis turned away, evidently overcome. “Well,” Porthos breathed. “Alrigh then. If your mind’s made up?” Athos gave a single resolute nod.

“Not all at once, Athos. It really could kill you,” Aramis broke in quickly. He raised his hands pacifically when Athos only growled in response, smiling. “Slowly, over time. A compromise.”

Athos narrowed his eyes. “ _Fine,_ but only if you all agree.”

D’Artagnan stuffed his hands into his pockets. “If it’s between my brother and the bottle…”

“T’aint no choice at all,” Porthos finished.

Athos sighed, and graced them with a small smile. “Very well. A compromise. Ah. I almost forgot,” reaching into his pocket, he produced a golden chain. “This is yours, Aramis,” Aramis’s face lit with surprise and joy at the sight of his cross. Athos handed it back and he held it reverently.

“You still have it? Athos, you astonishing man! I thought you would have thrown it into the river!” He cried, placing a kiss on the cross and throwing it back over his head. It settled against his chest and he let out a sigh of content. D’Artagnan smiled. Athos tipped his head. 

“A gift from you? Never.”

Aramis pressed a kiss to Athos’s temple in response, fingers wrapped about his returned gift. Porthos wrapped an arm around their shoulders. “Enough, enough, Athos, can’t you see you’re killin us? Now c’mon, let’s go finish that cider. I need a good, stiff drink to get over all the touchin moments tonight. And to get me through the Duke’s Hunt tomorrow.”

Athos snorted and walked over to his bed. He knelt down and rummaged under the covers for a moment and produced a bottle of vintage brandy. “No need,” a sheepish grin. “So I may not have sold _everything._ ”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “You bastard," he scolded. Porthos laughed and walked over to the cupboard to produce cups. He held them steady as Athos poured them eacha generaous amount, already sniffing the fruity aroma with a sigh of relief. 

“A toast," Porthos declared triumphantly, even as Athos's cup was half-downed. " _To us!”_

“To Athos," D'Artagnan corrected, smiling at his mentor. Athos scowled at him. 

“To brotherhood?" Aramis suggested. 

Athos stepped up and clinked his glass against each of theirs, catching each gaze in a sign of seriousness. 

“To sobriety," he nearly whispered. he glanced down at his cup. "One day.”

“Yes Athos,” D’Artagnan agreed, clinking glasses softly. “One day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of that! This fic came as an idea after re-watching Emilie, when Aramis had Athos stay with Emilie as she worked through the poison. I vaguely remember the lines "Athos has some experience in matters such as these," and was intrigued by the idea of Athos going through withdrawal at some point and how that came about. So, there.   
> I loved writing this fic, and if I can get my butt in gear, I'll finish another Musketeers multi-chapter, a Star Wars and Batman fic and finally finish up that Voltron semi-novel that I started at least six months ago. Have a good week, wherever you are!


End file.
